"Yes, and I've felt it, too, you may be sure, though I didn't show it. I've been cheerful and easy-going all along, and, thanks to that, I can say I've done two things at least: I've pleased my friends and vexed my enemies!
"And then the children upstairs, they've never really understood me; just looked on me as a sort of automatic machine for laying golden eggs. Lord, but I'd like to put their nose out of joint one day, the whole lot of them—make them take off their hats and look up to see where Knut G. Holm had got to."
He tried to take her hand, but she drew it back sharply, and with a blush retreated behind the shelter of her books.
"You think I'm a queer sort, don't you?"
"Not that, Mr. Holm. I was thinking you're a strong man. I've always longed to meet men that were not afraid to face the real hard things of life."
"You're right in that; one doesn't often find a man who's ready to risk anything really for his own convictions. It's easy enough to get into one's shell and rub along comfortably in flannel and carpet slippers, to shout with the crowd and agree politely to all that's said, be generally amiable and popular accordingly—but it's too cramped and stifling for me. I must have room to breathe, if I have to get out in the cold to do it."
He strode through into the shop, and she heard him talking to Garner about having the whole of the premises altered now, lighter and brighter, with big plate-glass windows, and the floor sunk to make it loftier.
Betty sat for a long while thinking deeply over what Holm had said. Several times she turned to her books, but only to fall back into the same train of thought; somehow it was impossible to work to-day.
A strange man, he was, indeed, and she did not quite like his being so confidential towards her. But an honest heart, of that she felt sure, and a man one could not help liking and helping as far as one could. Holm came into the office a little while after, and found it empty. Betty had gone. He stood awhile by her desk, then picked up the glass with the yellow roses in, and smelt them.
"Women, women"—he looked at the roses—"these little trifles are the weapons that count. H'm. Now would it be so strange after all if I did marry again? There's not much comfort to be looked for upstairs as things are now—and she's a clever girl as well as pretty. The youngsters, of course, would make no end of fuss, but I'd have to put up with that."