“That’s true enough. But d’you think Egholm would be put off like that? No, he set to work—that is, when he was grown up—and advertised in Berlingske Tidende, putting it all in, so-and-so, as if he didn’t know what shame was. And then his sister—half-sister, that is, of course—wrote and came along of her own accord. Nice enough in her way, she was, too, but you could see she was one of the same sort....”
Fru Egholm made a grimace involving numerous wrinkles of the nose. Madam Hermansen nodded as one who understood.
“Yes ... she gave herself out for an artist, like her father had been—and she was the image of him to look at, too.”
“But I thought....”
“Well, that of course, in a way. For they said she used to go sitting in a public place and painting pictures with a man stark naked as a model.”
“Heaven preserve us!” gasped Madam Hermansen. “In all my born days.... Well, she must have been a nice one.”
“She and Egholm simply slobbered over each other with their affected ways. She called him her dear lost brother, and how glad she was to find him again—and all that sort of thing. I simply said there was no need to carry on too much about it that I could see, for if they had grown up together, like as not they’d have been tearing each other’s eyes out. He was a terrible child, I believe—used to pour sand over the cake-man’s basket outside Rundetaarn, and let off fireworks in the street and so on.”
“And his father wouldn’t acknowledge him, then?”
“No. That is to say, his father made haste and died when the boy was only four or five about, but he’d had the grace to set aside a little money beforehand, so Egholm could have the most expensive schooling there ever was. And it’s left its pretty mark on him, as you can hear when he speaks.”