It was between nine and ten and the room was almost empty. A single customer was sitting near the counter. He was reading from a book to a girl who sat beside him doing needlework. It was a pretty, domestic scene, but it seemed to make a strong impression on Falk, who started violently and changed colour.
"Sellén! You here? Good evening, Beda!" he said, with artificial cordiality which sat strangely on him, shaking hands with the girl.
"Hallo! Falk, old chap!" said Sellén. "So you are in the habit of coming here too? I might have guessed it, you are hardly ever at the Red Room now."
Arvid and Beda exchanged glances. The young girl looked too distinguished for her position; she had a delicate, intelligent face, which betrayed a secret sorrow; and a slender figure. Her movements were full of self-confidence and modesty; her eyes were set in her face at a slightly upward angle; they seemed to be peering skyward as if they were anticipating evil to drop down from the clouds; with this exception they looked as if they were ready to play all the games which the whim of the moment might dictate.
"How grave you are," she said to Arvid, and her gaze dropped to her sewing.
"I've been to a grave meeting," said Arvid, blushing like a girl. "What were you reading?"
"I was reading the Dedication from Faust," said Sellén, stretching out his hand and playing with Beda's needlework.
A cloud darkened Arvid's face. The conversation became forced and restrained. Olle sat plunged in meditations, the subject of which must have been suicide.
Arvid asked for a paper and was given the Incorruptible. He remembered that he had forgotten to look for the review of his poems. He hastily opened the paper and on page three he found what he sought.
His eyes met neither compliments nor abuse; the article was dictated by genuine and deep interest. The reviewer found Arvid's poetry neither better nor worse than the average, but just as selfish and meaningless; he said that it treated only of the poet's private affairs, of illicit relations, real or fictitious; that it coquetted with little sins, but did not mourn over great ones; that it was no better than the English fashion-paper poetry, and he suggested that the author's portrait should have preceded the title-page; then the poems would have been illustrated.