Wareham spent a good deal of the day with Dr Sivertsen, going through necessary formalities and making the necessary arrangements. He was not sorry to accept the young man’s invitation to his house for supper. They talked of Hugh. Dr Sivertsen spoke of his frank simplicity.
“Something in him,” he said, “resembled the best type among us Norwegians.”
“That is for you to say, not me,” Wareham answered. “If we have learnt nothing else from your late revelations of yourselves, we have been, at least, taught not to classify so glibly as has been our custom.”
“We have thought more than we have written,” mused Sivertsen, puffing at his cigar. “And when I was in England, some years ago, it appeared to me that English conception of the northern character was principally based upon the tales of Frederika Bremer and the stories of Hans Andersen. There they saw one side, and of the moral character, I allow, the best. But they can hardly be said to draw a complete picture. Moreover, you are a writing nation; perhaps are not without danger of writing yourselves out?”
“Perhaps,” sighed Wareham wearily.
“We have the charm you thirst for—novelty. Novelty stands with you for originality, especially when united to daring.”
“Which you have never lacked.”
“In action. Of old our habit was to send the deed before the word. We are changing. I do not say it is for the better; but I dare say we offer greater interest to the world. Your young English lady is of quite another type from Mr Forbes.”
“Miss Dalrymple?” asked Wareham, with curiosity. “I hardly knew you had seen her.”
“Yes. I was interested, understanding from Dr Scott that she was to marry him. Was that so?”