“And he’s never been in love with anybody—outside, I mean?”
“There’s one he’s in love with,” laughed Fru Egholm—“more than anything else in the world. And that’s—himself! No, thank goodness he’s never had time for that sort of thing, being too busy with his steam-engine inventions. Now I think of it, though, there was a girl once, when he was quite young, over in Helsingør. Clara Steen was her name. You’ll have heard of Consul Steen, no doubt; he’s ever so rich. His daughter, it was. And she ran after him to such a degree.... Why, he used to write verses to her. Though I don’t count that anything very much against him, for he’s written poetry to me, too, in the days when we were engaged.”
She thrust a practised hand into her workbox, and fished up a yellowed scrap of paper, and read:
“‘Helsingør by waters bright
Like a Venice to the sight,
All the world thy fame doth know.
Beeches fair around thee grow,
And the fortress with its crown
Looks majestically down,...’”
Fru Hermansen relapsed into an envious silence, absently investigating her nostrils with one finger. Fru Egholm took out some new hair, and compared the colour with that she was using.
“Think that will do?” she asked ingratiatingly.
“Well, it ought to. It’s a deal prettier than the other.”
“But it oughtn’t to be! You’re supposed to have all the same coloured hair in one plait.”
“Ugh! I’ve no patience with all their affected ways,” said Fru Hermansen sullenly. She was disappointed at finding the conversation turned to something of so little interest by comparison. “What was I going to say now?” she went on. “Was it just lately he knocked you about like that?”
“Ye—es, of course. But no worse than before. Not nearly so bad. And anyhow, if he did, I suppose it was God’s will. Or else, perhaps, he can’t help it, by reason of always having an unruly mind.”