“And as for supper,” she went on, “wild horses wouldn’t give us more than we’ve got, and that’s no more than bread and dripping and a rind of cheese.”
“Nothing hot—not even a cup of tea?”
“Only the clove.”
“Only the clove! As if that wasn’t good enough.”
Clove tea was one of Egholm’s minor inventions. One day when the tea and coffee canisters were as empty as his empty purse, he had manufactured an aromatic beverage from cloves and hot water. He himself drank it thereafter in quantities and with relish, and Sivert was for a time in his good books merely on account of the audible “Aaah!” which he gave when it was poured out. Fru Egholm, too, conceded that it was certainly cheap—a packet of cloves costing two øre sufficed for a whole month. But Hedvig would not touch it.
“Good enough for that young humbug, yes.”
Once more Egholm felt his hands itching with murderous instincts, but when the tension was at its height, a spark flew over to some nerve of humour. He bent down almost double, put one hand to his mouth like a funnel, and whispered in his wife’s ear:
“Sh! Remember, his father’s an Angel!”
The Evangelist closed his puffy eyes reflectively for a moment when Egholm returned and stated what was the menu for the day.
“H’m. I’ll stay, all the same,” he said. And added a moment after: “If there’s eggs, I like them hard boiled.”