“Vait, plis!” she cried. “Yoost a minoot!”
“No!” he said, but Mrs. Anders was already hastening down the stairs.
He called after her, but she paid no attention. Down the last dark flight she stole, and looked into the kitchen, and behind Oscar’s back made a signal to her daughter. Ingeborg came out into the passage. They dared not even whisper, for fear of their tyrant; but Mrs. Anders pointed up the stairs, and Ingeborg followed her like a shadow.
The young man had not waited. He had come down into the hall, and was about to let himself out of the front door, when Ingeborg spoke.
“Is there something you want to ask about, please?”
He turned and looked at her. The hall was dim, with only a single gas jet high overhead, but he could see her well enough. She was small, and looked very slight in her plain, dark dress. Her dark hair was wound in braids about her head. Her face was pale and wide-browed, with clear, dark eyes that looked back at him steadily. A colorless, quiet little thing; what was there in her to catch at his heart?
“Yes,” he said curtly. “I wanted to know if I could get my breakfast here, and what you’d charge.”
Ingeborg explained the question to her mother in Danish, and then told the young man:
“I’ll find out, if you’ll please wait a moment.”
His blue eyes followed her as she moved away. Then he turned his head and looked out through the glass of the door. Mrs. Anders watched him, terribly anxious.