“Three øre—but, Lord! that’s nothing to them at all. No, you should have seen the order that came in the day they had their garden party. Five cakes with icing and marzipan.”
“Why, the bakers must be making a fortune.”
“They’ve made it already. Mistress bought a new hat the other day.”
“What was on it?” asked her mother. But her father leaned back with closed eyes, feeling as if his own thirst were assuaged for the moment by the flow of money Hedvig dipped her fingers in.
He was feverish, and needed something cooling. Here he was in the throes of his invention, and could not get it out.
Not a step nearer. No boat, nothing. And it was nearly autumn now. The trees stood there with their round juicy fruits. But, in his mind, it was all flowers. Was there anyone in all Knarreby so poor as the Egholms? Unless it were Bisserup, the brushmaker. And yet Egholm had spared no pains. He had tried Etatsraaden, tried Bro, the grocer, Rothe, the ironfounder; practically speaking, everyone of means in the place. He had also, by the way, tried those without means. Altogether, he had not passed by many an open ear without shouting into it something about Egholm’s fore-and-aft turbine. Rothe had promised to make the castings for him, but that was all.
He looked at Hedvig. She stood up, reaching with her thin, girlish arms for the parcel with her white apron in, up on the dresser. Off to her work. Off to all that money again.
“Wait a minute,” he said. There was a slight pause then, before he could stammer out his proposal—that they should all kneel down and pray to God. He did not know why, but it must be now, just at this moment, he said.
This was by no means a new and unheard-of thing; on the contrary, it had been known as far back as Hedvig could remember.