They stayed up till nearly midnight. Egholm strode up and down, filling the room with words. Possibly he was already rehearsing for the coming Wednesday. Karlsen smoked, and drank many cups of black coffee. The children hung over the table, limp and heavy with drowsiness, casting greedy glances at the settee. Their mother tore at her sewing more violently than usual, and sighed aloud.
At last Karlsen took his leave. Egholm could not bear to break off even then, but went out with him. He waved his arms in the air, and tripped about, now and then actually circling round his companion as they walked.
Did he think, now, the Bible Society would care to have a dissertation on the two conflicting points? There ought, at any rate, to be some kind of indication, an asterisk, say, in the first place, to save others from confusion.
Karlsen thought they very likely would.
The street lamps glowed red in the fog. A policeman appeared at a corner, waved to them cheerfully, and said sympathetically: “Get along home; that’s the best place for you.”
“Thinks we’re drunk,” said Egholm, and stopped for breath. “But—we’ve been talking, and never thought ... your bag. We’ve forgotten all about it.”
“Bag? Oh yes.... No; that’s all right. I spotted the old man’s cart just outside the station, and sent it home by that.”
“Good! Then that’s all right.” Egholm’s thoughts were at once occupied with something else. His brain was fluttering with innumerable winged thoughts.
“Well, better say good-night.”