“I am afraid he cannot get a letter till next Monday,” said Sigrid.
“No, there is no help for that,” said Herr Grönvold. “I shall do all that can be done with regard to the business; that he will know quite well, and his return later on would be a mere waste of time and money. He must seek work in London without delay, and I have told him so. Do you think this is clear?”
He handed her the message he had written, and she read it through, though each word was like a stab.
“Quite clear,” she said, returning it to him.
Her voice was so tired and worn that it attracted his notice for the first time.
“My dear,” he said kindly, “it has been a terrible day for you; you had better go to bed and rest. Leave everything to me. I promise you all shall be attended to.”
“You are very kind,” she said, yet with all the time a terrible craving for something more than this sort of kindness, for something which was perhaps beyond Herr Grönvold’s power to give.
“Would you like your aunt or one of your cousins to spend the night here?” he asked.
“No,” she said; “I am better alone. They will come to-morrow. I—I will rest now.”
“Very well. Good-by, then, my dear. I will send off the telegram at once.”