“Well, I’ll tell the old squarehead,” he said. “What’s the harm if she does go out with a fellow?”
“Hush!” said Mrs. Anders sternly. “It is a badness when you speak so of the Uncle Oscar. He is a goot man. He gifs us a home.”
Gunnar had to understand that, for in his own heart there was an echo of that simple fidelity. Let him try to laugh if he would, the old austerities were deathless in him. He stood before a good woman, and he was abashed.
He thought no more of going boastfully and arrogantly to Oscar Anders. Anders was the master of this house, as Gunnar’s father had been master of his. He was not to be affronted.
“Where’s Ingeborg?” asked Gunnar, speaking very low.
“You shall not tr-rouble my Ingeborg!” said Mrs. Anders.
“I can speak to her, can’t I?” he inquired sullenly.
Mrs. Anders looked at him in silence for a time.
“She sits up on the stairs,” she said. “Her Uncle Oscar is too mad, so he yells that she cannot come downstairs for it.”
Gunnar set his foot on the lowest stair. He did not want to go to Ingeborg. What had he to say to her? But he had to go. He went unwillingly, slowly.