"Yes, and perfumed too, lovely, m-m-m. Patchouli!" said Nachmann, holding the envelope to Nickelsen's nose.
After some further deliberation Old Nick wrote to Mrs. Emilie Rantzau, and learned that she was the widow of a Danish artist, had spent many years abroad, and wished now to find a position in some small town where she could live a quiet, retired life, occupied solely with her duties.
Her letters were so frank and sincere, that they made quite an impression on Old Nick, and he decided to engage her. She was to come on Saturday, and on the Friday before, Nickelsen did not go to his office at all, but stayed at home, going about dusting the rooms with an old handkerchief.
Thinking the place looked rather bare, he obtained a big palm and an indiarubber plant to brighten things up a little.
He was queerly nervous and ill at ease every day, with a feeling as if some misfortune were on the way. What would she be like, he wondered? If the experiment turned out a failure, there would be an end of his domestic peace. Perhaps after all he would have done better to stick to the Marthe type....
They were seated at dinner, and her fine dark eyes played over his face.
"No, you must let me make the salad. I promise you it shall be good." And she took the bowl, her soft, delicate hand just touching his as she did so.
Old Nick murmured something politely, and was conscious that he flushed up to the roots of his white mane.
"Queer sort of woman this." It was on the tip of his tongue to say it aloud, but he checked himself in time. The joint was served, and for the first time in his life he forgot to pick out the marrow. Fancy forgetting that! In old Marthe's time he invariably sent for toast, and a spoon to get it out with; now he sat attentively listening to Mrs. Rantzau's stories of the theatre in Copenhagen.
"Very nice claret this of yours, Mr. Nickelsen. I know '78 is supposed to be the best—good body they say. Funny, isn't it, to talk of wine having a body."