“Don’t you believe it! When things turn out like they have done here. To tell the truth—I’ve been thinking of a little flutter on my own account. Old man Vivild’s put me on to a good thing ... but it seems you know the trick of it, so....”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake don’t. Stick to Vivild if you’re going in for that sort of thing. He’s a sound man, and a clever one.”
“Well, well, as you please. But I can’t get over it.... A millionaire!... the dev—— Lord forgive me!”
After lunch the three sat together in a corner of the garden—Ketill and Alma side by side on a bench, Ormarr a little apart.
The conversation flagged somewhat; a few desultory attempts fell flat.
Suddenly Ormarr realized that his brother’s manner was different when Alma was present. He had noticed something before ... a curious abrupt change of mood, from lively jocularity to a sort of dreamy, thoughtful silence. But it had never occurred to him that it was Alma that brought about the change. Could it be a mask? In any case, the mask, if mask it were, suited him a great deal better than his normal appearance.
And as he watched them, Alma with her brown hair and bright dark eyes and Ketill with his heavy face and priestly air of calm, a feeling of resentment rose in him against his brother.
“I love coming out here,” said Alma suddenly. “It’s so different to the atmosphere at home—business.... Ugh.”
Ketill smiled. But Ormarr laughed and said: