"Ha! ha! you give her up?" said the worthy woman, with a scornful laugh. "A lot she'll care about that! As long as she's got that fine daughter of hers in service at old Frick's, in the Drammen Road, she can live in grand style, and enjoy herself without washing a rag. But I should say it'll all come to a terrible end some day; when people begin to run after them actors I wouldn't give you a thank you for 'em!"
And with that our short but pleasant conversation ended.
I tried to find out a little more about the actor who had suddenly been introduced upon the scene, but I was sharply sent about my business by the woman, who "did not go about telling tales, let alone to strangers."
There was nothing more to be done, so I mounted up to the fourth story.
On a door with glass panes were fastened two visiting-cards. I read: Ludwig Frederiksen, actor; Tho. Herstad, medical student.
To the left I found an ordinary kitchen door. As I knocked at this a stout woman appeared. Madame Reierson was clad in what I would call a simple morning toilet. I can hardly describe the various articles of her dress; all of them, however, appeared to be too tight-fitting for her buxom figure, and to have seen better days.
I lifted my large, broad-brimmed, low-crowned, clerical hat to her, and then explained that the object of my visit was to ask madame to do some washing for me.
She seemed greatly surprised that any one, unsolicited, should intrust his clothes to her to wash, and asked rather suspiciously who had recommended her.
"Perhaps we might go inside," said I. "I would like to sit down a little. I'm not quite well, and the stairs trouble me."
She mumbled something about "she didn't mind," and showed me through the kitchen into a disorderly room, filled with foul air. This served as her parlour and her bedroom.