Neither of them meant anything in particular by these last words, but they said them in a significant tone, as if a world of delicate meanings were hidden in them, and looked at each other with a subtle smile, like an afterglow of the wit that had just flashed between them, while each wondered what the other meant and felt slightly annoyed at being so slow of comprehension.
They strolled back to the other end of the room, and Mrs. Boye took her seat on the low chair again.
Erik and Frithjof had talked till they were beginning to be bored with each other and were glad to be joined by the others. Frithjof approached Mrs. Boye and made himself agreeable, while Erik, with the modesty of the host, kept himself in the background.
“If I were curious,” said Frithjof, “I should inquire what the book was that made you and Refstrup quarrel just as we were coming in.”
“Do you inquire?”
“I do.”
“Ergo?”
“Ergo!” replied Frithjof with a humble, acquiescent bow.
She held up the book and solemnly announced: “Helge, Oehlenschläger’s Helge.—And what canto? It was ‘The Mermaid visits King Helge.’—And what verse? It was the lines telling of how Tangkjaer lay down by Helge’s side, and how he couldn’t control his curiosity any longer, but turned