At half-past nine the next morning, when the May sun was shining warmly, a gentleman entered the courtyard of 44 Russelök Street.
The gentleman was not very elegantly dressed; his coat was somewhat shabby, and his trouser-bottoms a little the worse for wear, but still he might pass as quite a respectable person; for instance, as a poor theological student of middle age.
I hoped, at least, that my appearance was something like this, for this was the rôle I intended to play.
In the courtyard a woman was standing rinsing clothes under a pump. I asked for Madame Reierson, and learned that she was living in the fourth story on the right-hand side of the staircase.
"I mean the woman who takes in washing."
"Well, I don't think there's much washing done, but there's only one Madame Reierson in this house, at any rate," was the surly answer.
"I think you're right about the washing. In any case, the clothes I last got home were only half washed," I remarked.
My depreciatory remark about her neighbour's work evidently appealed to the woman; she deigned to let go the wet clothes she had in her hand, and turned round to me.
"Ah, indeed! Really! So she has been washing for you, has she, and you don't like her washing? Well, you're not the first as says that. It's a shame that such a drunken wretch should take the bread out of other people's mouths, and live in grand style, and enjoy herself."
"Well, I, for my part, have been thinking of giving her up as my washerwoman."