The new disciple was still talking nervously about the dog—it was leaving footmarks all over the place, but then, you know, in such weather.... She had galoshes for it, really, only to-night....
She moved to sit down, but the others rose hurriedly as she did so, and the bench rocked.
No, no, she couldn’t sit there—no, not there; she couldn’t. No....
Fru Westergaard allowed herself the luxury of some eccentricities. She had remained unmarried until her six-and-fortieth year.
Egholm had been prepared for the trouble about the seat. Sprightly as a youth, he dashed out of the hall and across the courtyard to the taproom in front.
“A chair; lend me a chair, will you? Fru Westergaard’s there.”
“Fru Westergaard!”
“Fru Westergaard!”
He came back, breathless, with an American rocking-chair, which he proffered humbly.
The congregation had meanwhile arranged itself in a phalanx formation like wild geese on the wing. In the forefront of all sat the new disciple in her restless chair. On the next bench were Evangelist Karlsen and Egholm alone, and behind them again came the rest of the dearly beloved, in order of precedence according to dignity or ambition.