“No, dear,” he said, seating himself at the table, and beginning to eat, more for the purpose of removing the smell of whisky than of satisfying any hunger. He noticed that there was a half-bottle of beer upon the table, and this positively agitated him. They could not afford to drink beer now, but perhaps she had found this last bottle in some box, and in spite of her own troubles, had not forgotten to put it on the table when she expected him.
“Have you had supper?” he asked, as she did not come to table.
“No, thank you,” she said; “I don’t think I can eat anything.”
“Oh yes, Karen,” he said; “Sören will want his supper, you know.”
This little joke seemed so strange in their present gloomy mood. For Sören was their secret pet-name for the little one that was still unborn. And now, when the father said this, it was as though a little bridge of gold had been thrown between them, and she could not help looking brightly up at him and smiling.
That smile seemed to light up the room. It relieved them both, and they were now able to talk quietly about this affair with Norby.
“Can you imagine what has made him do it?” she said, as she poured herself out a cup of tea.
He felt her eyes upon him, and this time he could raise his head and meet them.
“Well, it must come to light some day. It is either a misunderstanding, or——”