“Disgusting, madam, decidedly disgusting. Do you really think, Mr. Ronholt, that this description puts the man in a better light?”
“No, but in a surer one; you know in the darkness things often seem larger than they are.”
“Can you think of anything worse?”
“If not, then this is the worst, but you know one should never think the worst of people.”
“Then you really mean, that the whole affair is not so bad, that there is something bold in it, something in a sense eminently plebeian, which pleases your liking for democracy.”
“Don’t you see, that in respect to his environment his conduct is quite aristocratic?”
“Aristocratic? No, that is lather paradoxical. If he is not a democrat, then I really don’t know what he is.”
“Well, there are still other designations.”
White alders, bluish lilac, red hawthorn, and radiant laburnum were in flower and gave forth their fragrance in front of the house. The windows were open and the blinds were drawn. Mogens leaned in over the sill and the blinds lay on his back. It was grateful to the eye after all the summer-sun on forest and water and in the air to look into the subdued, soft, quiet light of a room. A tall woman of opulent figure stood within, the back toward the window, and was putting flowers in a large vase. The waist of her pink morning-gown was gathered high up below, the bosom by a shining black leather-belt; on the floor behind her lay a snow-white dressing-jacket; her abundant, very blond hair was hanging in a bright-red net.