Ketill—Sera Ketill, as we should now call him—was young and good-looking, with a pleasant and genial bearing. At times Ormarr could not help feeling that there was something a trifle insincere in his brother’s geniality. Still, Ketill was a nice enough fellow to all outward seeming, albeit a trifle stouter of build than need be.
There was never any exchange of confidence between the two brothers; they knew, indeed, but little of each other. Ormarr was conscious of an involuntary dislike of Ketill; he tried in vain to subdue the feeling; it remained unaltered. Ketill, on the other hand, appeared not to notice any lack of brotherly love and sympathy. Neither of the two men realized that Ketill’s nature not only did not invite, but rendered impossible any real confidence.
The first to notice this, albeit but vaguely to begin with, was Alma. The discovery troubled her a little, but she let it pass.
From all appearances, the union was a promising one, and the wedding was looked forward to by both parties with equal anticipation. The ceremony was to take place on the day before Ketill’s entering upon his new dignity, and the bride was to accompany him to their new home.
Alma and Ketill arrived at Ormarr’s house half an hour after Ketill had rung up. Alma promptly went out to assist the housekeeper with the lunch.
The brothers, standing by the writing-table in the sitting-room, lit their cigarettes. Sera Ketill looked with unconcealed scrutiny at his brother’s face, and with his usual affectation of heartiness said at once:
“Well, if you’re not ill, you look precious near it. What’s gone wrong now? Business?”
“That’s as you like to take it.”
“What do you mean by that? Nothing important, I suppose.”
“Important?—well, in a way, it is.” Ormarr passed the wire across to his brother, who read it through.