Egholm had himself been something of a thunderbolt—an ex-official of the railway service suddenly appearing in this assembly of hunchbacked tailors and lame shoemakers, relics from the almshouses, and all that was worn out and faded—always excepting, of course, the prosperous ironmonger at their head. But Fru Westergaard was as an earthquake that sent them flat on their faces at once. Not a child in the town but knew her and her villa and her dog, that took its meals with her at table.
Johannes, the postman, stood leaning against the wall, helpless, as if in terror.
Madam[1] Kvist, her eyes starting out behind her glasses, asked aloud, in unaffected wonder:
“Why—what in the name of mercy will she be wanting here?”
And Madam Strand, the dustman’s wife, a little black figure of a woman, was curtseying and mumbling continually: “Such an honour, did you ever, such an honour....”
Most of those present inwardly endorsed the sentiment.
Egholm drew himself up and sought to catch Fru Westergaard’s eye. He did not manage it, but let off his bow all the same. Only the incorrigible photographer sat swinging his legs on the vaulting-horse, with an expression of cold disapproval on his face.
Angel Karlsen stood by the three steps, ready, like another St. Peter, to receive the approaching soul. He took both the lady’s hands and pressed them warmly.
“There’s rejoicing here on earth and in the mansions of the Lord,” he said, with emotion, “at the coming of this our new disciple.” When he spoke, his great white beard went up and down, as if emphasising his words.
“And now the usual word of thanksgiving. Sit down here in front, Frue.”