He also had a feeling that it was only on the basis of this conspiracy that he had any right to make the working men his brothers in misfortune; so her slightest word in defence of Norby seemed an attempt to rob himself of a virtue, a strength, which the homage of the working men gave him.
When at last he came downstairs that morning the rooms felt very warm and comfortable. “Has the tailor gone?” he asked almost anxiously.
“Yes,” she answered—she was standing in the kitchen, rinsing clothes—“I managed to get rid of him at last.”
When he had finished breakfast, he sat down to the only work he did at that time, namely, writing articles for a labour-paper. The title to-day was “The Experiences of a Factory-Owner with Regard to the Eight-hours’ Working-Day.”
His recollections on this subject acquired a wonderful golden radiance from the very fact of his clinging to the belief that the cause of his ruin lay neither in himself nor in any thoughtless reform. It was an ideal that he felt an affection for, and he found a comfort in glorifying it, because it acquitted him while at the same time it cast a shadow upon his enemies.
As he sat with his pipe in his mouth, becoming warmer and warmer as he wrote, the kitchen door opened and Fru Wangen entered with her sleeves rolled up.
“Henry, dear,” she said; “are you going to let another day go by without seeing about a house?”
“I’ve told you,” he said, a little irritated at the interruption, “that it’s no good looking for a house as long as I have this hanging over me.” And he went on writing, when she continued:
“But would you rather be turned out? Have you forgotten that the auction is to be here next week?”
He threw his pencil across the table. Latterly she seemed always to be having a suspicion that he was doing something wrong, and must therefore come and interfere.