“No, no, no, I won’t have it, I say.”
Egholm stood with hectic cheeks; his former respect for the Angel still checked any actual outburst of fury, but from the look of him, it was doubtful what might happen next.
“This is not the proper place to discuss the word of God, nor the proper time, nor the mood for it, either. Come round again this evening, my dear Egholm. At eight, say, and then we can talk over whatever it is that’s troubling you.”
The commercial plucked him by the sleeve. “I thought you were coming round to the hotel—Postgaarden, you said.”
“Er—well, we might say to-morrow evening at eight,” corrected the Angel. “Yes, come round to-morrow, Egholm; that will do.”
Egholm drew himself up and shot sparks, but said nothing. He shut up the clasp of his Bible with a snap.
“Have a cigar, won’t you?” said the Angel, offering the box.
“No, thank you.”
“Yes, yes, do. They’re none so bad—what, Hr. Nathan?”