“I’ll pay you out for this,” he said, shaking a finger at her. “Just you wait and see, little lady, if I don’t pay you out, with interest!” And he turned and went upstairs, chuckling as he went.
Peer was sitting at the writing-table in his study when Klaus came in. “I’m just sealing up the letter with the money for Martin Bruvold,” he said, setting the taper to a stick of sealing wax. “I’ve signed it: ‘From the shark fishers.’”
“Yes, it was a capital idea of Ferdinand’s. What d’you think the poor old fellow’ll say when he opens it and the big notes tumble out?”
“I’d like to see his face,” said Peer, as he wrote the address on the envelope.
Klaus dropped into a leather armchair and leaned back comfortably. “I’ve been downstairs flirting a little with your wife,” he said. “Your wife’s a wonder, Peer.”
Peer looked at him, and thought of the old days when the heavy-built, clumsy doctor’s son had run about after the servant-girls in the town. He had still something of his old lurching walk, but intercourse with the ladies of many lands had polished him and given lightness and ease to his manner.
“What was I going to say?” Klaus went on. “Oh yes—our friend Ferdinand’s a fine fellow, isn’t he?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“I felt yesterday exactly as I used to feel when we three were together in the old days. When I listen to his talk I can’t help agreeing with him—and then you begin to speak, and what you say, too, seems to be just what I’ve been thinking in my inmost soul. Do you think I’ve become shallow, Peer?”
“Well, your steam ploughs look after themselves, I suppose, and the ladies of your harem don’t trouble you overmuch. Do you read at all?”