Sören did not deign to answer.
“Ah, won’t your lordship speak to us?” Anne went on. “Common folk like us would fain hear how the gentry talk, and I know his lordship’s able, for you’ve heard, Trine, that his sweetheart’s given him a compliment-book, and sure it can’t fail that such a fine gentleman can read and spell both backwards and forwards.”
Sören struck the table with his fist and looked wrathfully at her.
“Oh, Sören,” began the other girl, “I’ll give you a bad penny for a kiss. I know you get roast meat and mead from the old—”
At that moment Marie came in with the cake and set it down before Sören, but he threw it along the table.
“Turn those women out!” he shouted.
But the tallow would get cold.
He didn’t care if it did.
The maids were sent away.
Sören flung the red cap from him, cursed and swore and was angry. He didn’t want her to go there and stuff him with food as if he was an unfattened pig, and he wouldn’t be made a fool of before people with her making play-actor caps for him, and there’d have to be an end to this. He’d have her know that he was the man, and didn’t care to have her coddle him, and he’d never meant it that way. He wanted to rule, and she’d have to mind him; he wanted to give, and she should take. Of course he knew he didn’t have anything to give, but that was no reason why she should make nothing of him by giving to him. If she wouldn’t go with him through fire and flood, they’d have to part. He couldn’t stand this. She’d have to give herself into his power and run away with him, she shouldn’t sit there and be your ladyship and make him always look up to her. He needed to have her be a dog with him—be poor, so he could be good to her and have her thank him, and she must be afraid of him and not have any one to put her trust in but him.