Knut Holm was no longer a youth, he was nearing fifty-seven; but to judge from his fair-haired, rotund figure as one met him in the street, always with his coat unbuttoned and his silk hat at a rakish angle, one would have set him down as ten years younger.
There was a peculiar briskness in his gait as he walked up the street in business hours, stopping to speak with every soul he met, and yet with such haste that the person last addressed would generally be left staring open-mouthed, without having had the chance of uttering a syllable.
Holm had long been thinking of getting in a lady clerk, a reliable person who could look after the office and keep the books up to date. Peder Clasen and Garner had both been with him for many years, but both felt more at home outside in the shop, and never troubled about bookkeeping more than strictly necessary, and hardly that, with the result that the books were generally half a year behind. Nothing had come of the lady-clerk idea, however, until one day Dr. Blok looked in and asked if Holm could find any use for a young lady he knew, and could safely recommend, a Miss Betty Rantzau. Her mother taught singing; had come to the town some six months before; and the daughter was a willing and well-educated girl; it would be a good action to find her something to do. Clasen and Garner, not to speak of Holm himself, awaited her arrival with considerable interest. She was tall and slender, with a wealth of fair hair, and pretty teeth that showed when she smiled. She offered her hand with frank kindliness to Clasen as she came in. "So we are to work together," she said. "Very kind of you, I'm sure," stammered Clasen in confusion. "Mr. Holm is in the office; will you please to go in?"
Soon after, she was duly installed on the high stool in the office, with Holm himself sitting opposite, at the other side of the desk. She managed the old daybook with surprising ease; Holm glanced at her from time to time as she worked. He found it difficult to open conversation; it was queer to have a woman about the place like this, and at such close quarters. He felt himself obliged to be a little careful of his words,—a thing he was altogether unaccustomed to in the office.
Next day, the usual meeting in the "gossip-shop" was of unusually brief duration, for as Vindt, the stockbroker, declared when he came out, "Damme, but it's spoiled the whole thing, having a blessed woman in there listening to every word you say." Whereto Holm replied that it was "sort of comfortable to have a pleasant young face to look at, instead of a wrinkled old pumpkin like yours, Vindt!" Vindt growled, and took his departure hastily.
And it was not many days before Holm was chatting away easily to Betty, as she worked at her books, pretending to listen attentively the while to all his stories.
"I'm not disturbing you, I hope?"
"No, indeed, Mr. Holm. It's very nice of you, I'm sure, to talk to me." She slipped down from her chair, and stroked the back of the big ledger with her slender white hands.
"I've walked a deuce of a way to-day"—he sat down on the sofa and wiped his forehead—"went right out to the cemetery, to lay a wreath on C. H. Pettersen and Company's grave. You've heard of C. Henrik Pettersen, I dare say? Grocery and provision stores over the square there; had it for years and years. First-rate man he was; my best friend."
"Good friends are very precious, Mr. Holm."