One December day another conclave was held in Mr. Boniface’s private room. Mr. Boniface himself sat with his arm chair turned round toward the fire, and on his pleasant, genial face there was a slight cloud, for he much disliked the prospect of the discussion before him. Mr. Horner stood with his back to the mantel-piece, looking even more pompous and conceited than usual, and Roy sat at the writing-table, listening attentively to what passed, and relieving his feelings by savagely digging his pen into the blotting-pad to the great detriment of its point.
“It is high time we came to an understanding on this matter,” Mr. Horner was saying. “Do you fully understand that when I have once said a thing I keep to it? Either that Norwegian must go, or when the day comes for renewing our partnership I leave this place never to re-enter it.”
“I do not wish to have any quarrel with you about the matter,” said Mr. Boniface. “But I shall certainly not part with Falck. To send him away now would be most cruel and unjustifiable.”
“It would be nothing of the sort,” retorted Mr. Horner hotly. “It would be merely following the dictates of common-sense and fairness.”
“This is precisely the point on which you and I do not agree,” said Mr. Boniface with dignity.
“It is not only his dishonesty that has set me against him,” continued Mr. Horner. “It is his impertinent indifference, his insufferable manner when I order him to do anything.”
“I have never myself found him anything but a perfect gentleman,” said Mr. Boniface.
“Gentleman! Oh! I’ve no patience with all that tomfoolery! I want none of your gentlemen; I want a shopman who knows his place and can answer with proper deference.”
“You do not understand the Norse nature,” said Roy. “Now here in the newspaper, this very day, is a good sample of it.” He unfolded the morning paper eagerly and read them the following lines, taking a wicked delight in the thought of how it would strike home:
“Their noble simplicity and freedom of manners bear witness that they have never submitted to the yoke of a conqueror, or to the rod of a petty feudal lord; a peasantry at once so kind-hearted, so truly humble and religious, and yet so nobly proud, where pride is a virtue, who resent any wanton affront to their honor or dignity. As an instance of this, it may be mentioned that a naturalist, on finding that his hired peasant companions had not done their work of dredging to his satisfaction, scolded them in violent and abusive language. The men did not seem to take the slightest notice of his scolding. ‘How can you stand there so stupidly and apathetically, as though the matter did not concern you?’ said he, still more irritated. ‘It is because we think, sir, that such language is only a sign of bad breeding,’ replied an unawed son of the mountains, whom even poverty could not strip of the consciousness of his dignity.”