“I hardly knew you again,” said Peer, grasping the other’s hand.
“And you’re a millionaire, so they say—and famous, out in the big world?”
“Not quite so bad as that, old fellow. But what about you?”
“I? Oh, don’t talk about me.” And as they walked down the street together, Langberg poured out his tale, of how times were desperately bad, and conditions at home here simply strangled a man. He had started ten or twelve years ago as a draughtsman in the offices of the State Railways, and was still there, with a growing family—and “such pay—such pay, my dear fellow!” He threw up his eyes and clasped his hands despairingly.
“Look here,” said Peer, interrupting him. “Where is the best place in Christiania to go and have a good time in the evening?”
“Well, St. Hans Hill, for instance. There’s music there.”
“Right—will you come and dine with me there, to-night—shall we say eight o’clock?”
“Thanks. I should think I would!”
Peer arrived in good time, and engaged a table on a verandah. Langberg made his appearance shortly after, dressed in his well-saved Sunday best—faded frock-coat, light trousers bagged at the knees, and a straw hat yellow with age.
“It’s a pleasure to have someone to talk to again,” said Peer. “For the last year or so I’ve been knocking about pretty much by myself.”