“Could I have maybe one, two minutes?” he asked solemnly.
“Of course!” said Mr. Petersen. “Come in! We’ll sit down in the kitchen, not to disturb Mrs. Petersen. Now! What’s wrong?”
Hansen took a chair in a manner combining Socialistic equality with the politeness due to a much richer man.
“It’s this way,” he said, “my wife she is badly upset about this business.”
“What business?” Mr. Petersen enquired with a sinking heart, surmising another miserable disturbance between the two women, an unusually bad one if their men had to be dragged into it.
“Losing all these things. She thinks maybe you begin to suspect her.”
Mr. Petersen’s face flushed.
“Nonsense, Hansen!”
“Nonsense all right,” said Hansen, with slow obstinacy. “But that’s what she thinks. First one thing, then another is every day going.”
His English grew more and more halting, but he wouldn’t for worlds have used his and Mr. Petersen’s native tongue. They must under all circumstances preserve the illusion of being Americans.