Then Finn would sometimes begin to talk.
Mostly of his travels. And he could speak of these almost as he thought and as he spoke to his mother. It was as though the life and the noise that half drowned his words made him feel freer and safer.
And, although Hans cared but little for what Finn had seen and talked about, still there was a color and a gleam about his words that captivated him.
But, when it happened that the noise in the street was suddenly stilled, then Finn was silent and frightened. And, if, for a moment, they were separated in the crowd and Hans failed to catch a sentence and asked him to repeat it, or seized upon some phrase and asked for a further explanation and confirmation, then Finn was forthwith tired and his mood changed.
He often stopped when a piece of street-life caught his attention. He pointed it out to his friend and made it the subject of his talk. Then Hans would underline his words with some racy observation or other, which amused Finn, but afterwards annoyed him, because it spoilt the picture for him.
They never talked about women.
Finn was silent, because his thoughts were vague and modest. And Hans’ experiences were not of such a nature that he cared to talk about them. Then, also, they both had an instinctive feeling that they had less in common on this subject than on any other and that they did not wish ever to cross each other’s path.
On one occasion only was Finn his friend’s guest in his home.
It was a regular feast in the little rooms, high up under the roof, and Finn was glad to be there.
He looked in delight at the two little old people who stood and sat with folded hands and little bows and nods and did not know how to show their respect and gratitude to the young master of the house. They took it for granted, as a settled thing, that Finn must be vexed because Hans had broken with tradition and gone his own way and they made endless covert excuses for it.