There was a knock at the door. Languidly Ormarr rose to open. He recognized the voice of his friend, Aage Blad.
Save for Grahl, Ormarr’s only intimate friend was the young poet, Aage Blad; the two were constant companions. Blad’s earnest love of life had endeared him to Ormarr, and though the latter, true to his adopted rôle of insincerity, often made fun of his friend’s seriousness, the poet had soon realized that it was not meant, and as a rule paid no heed to it. But if ever he found that he had gone too far, Ormarr always relapsed into silence, and his friend understood that this was his way of asking forgiveness.
Blad glanced at Ormarr’s face as he entered, and gathered at once that his friend was not in the best of spirits. He shook hands in silence.
Ormarr flung himself down on the divan once more, leaving his visitor to make himself at home. Blad moved up a chair, and the two friends smoked in silence for a while, watching each other.
“Nervous?” queried Blad at last.
“Wish I were!”
“Curious thing to wish. Thank your stars you’re as cool about it as you are. Anything wrong?”
“Oh, everything.”
“Oh, that’s no trifle, anyway.”
Silence.