The tumult within him had subsided, leaving no more than the ordinary eagerness of a man in a hurry—a man intent on getting to a meeting in good time.
Street after street, with the same wet breath in his face. He crossed over Vestergade, where the shop windows flared in a row on either side, and a carriage on its way to the theatre nearly knocked him down. Then he burrowed once more into the side streets, emerging at last, by way of a narrow passage, into a yard, where lights were burning in the windows of a stable—a stable converted, being now the hall and meeting-place of the Brethren of St. John.
The unlighted entry gave out a thick smell of mildew and plaster. Egholm felt a childish nervousness as he realised that the meeting had already begun. He smoothed his wreath of hair, and wiped the water from his face with his cape; then, fumbling for the handle of the door, he walked in.
The hall was half-full of people; young Karlsen was standing on the stage, delivering a sort of homily. This was young Karlsen’s usual opening, designed to pass the time until old Karlsen could get away from the shop. Everybody knew it, and all bore it patiently, excepting young Karlsen himself, who longed most earnestly for the hour of his deliverance.
At the sound of the door, he stooped and bent forward, trying to see beneath the lamps and make out who had come in. But he made no pause in his sermon; only, his delivery became somewhat strained and disconnected.
When the bald top of Egholm’s head caught the light, however, he drew back with a jerk of disappointment, yawned, thrust his hands resignedly into his pockets, and went on:
“Consequently, my dear friends, as I have said——”
Egholm stepped softly to a rickety seat, and sheltered himself behind Fru Laursen’s ample figure.