“That sort of thing!” Egholm’s voice was uncertain; he had a feeling that his wife was, after all, somehow in relation with the heavenly powers.
“No good having a cow that yields when it kicks over the bucket after. The first part was all right, but if you think God’s going to help with your silly tricks about that turbine thing—why, you’re very much mistaken.”
“But, why not?...”
“Because it’s an abomination. Cain was the first smith, and you know it. And the Lord hates all that hammering and smithying about at turbines and steam carts and friction cylinders....”
“Friction couplings,” corrected Egholm gently.
“Well, I don’t care what you call them. He hates all that sort of stuff, whatever name you give it. And you can be certain sure you’ll get nothing out of that prayer,” she concluded, with a lofty shake of her head.
Egholm sat down in silence, and Hedvig, seeing that he was overcome by some incomprehensible means, hurried off in relief.
What had come to Egholm now? Was he impressed by his wife’s wisdom? Oh, he thought her foolish beyond words.
But she had destroyed his exaltation as effectively as a knife thrust into a balloon.