They had finished dinner, and as they rose from the table, Ørlygur, according to custom, offered his hand to his host. The doctor grasped it heartily.
“Excuse me a moment,” he said, and went out into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.
Snebiorg was in the kitchen; she had not appeared in the dining-room after the soup.
“I want to ask your pardon,” he said frankly. “I promise you it shall not occur again. Until this moment I had no idea that you were a friend of Ørlygur à Borg. He is a good friend of mine, and I hope you also will regard me as a friend.”
Snebiorg looked at him at first with some distrust; she had never liked the man. But there was a certain shyness in his manner now, and a kindly tenderness in his eyes, altogether different from his former attitude towards her. And she could not but feel he was sincere.
She made no answer, but he noticed the altered look in her face, and, greatly relieved, he went back to Ørlygur and led him to the sitting-room.
“I’ve been out to beg pardon,” he said, offering a box of cigars. “She’ll be as safe here with me now as with her mother. And if you think it’s only because you knocked me down just now, you’re wrong.”
Ørlygur looked at him doubtfully.
“I know what you’re thinking of,” the doctor went on. “My promise wouldn’t count for much when I’ve been drinking, eh? But there’s just a bit of my heart that the whisky hasn’t altogether spoiled as yet.”
He glanced up at a large picture of his dead wife on the wall. There were other portraits of her about the room. And his eyes were moist.