VII
As Egholm came up to the station, he caught sight of young Karlsen. He was pale, and there was a cut on the bridge of his nose, but his temper was of the best.
“Aha!” he said artfully, nudging Egholm with his elbow. “Aha!” And he grinned.
That nudge, that grin, and that “Aha!” said much. They seemed to imply that Karlsen and Egholm had a pleasant—oh, a delightful little secret between them.
“A nice way you treated me last night,” said Egholm. He would have spoken more forcibly, a great deal more forcibly, but his mind was distracted by the thoughts of his journey. He had not yet made his choice of where to go. And the world was wide. “I hadn’t expected that of you—after what you said. You know.”
“Let not the sun go down upon thy wrath. And—er—bless them that curse you, and—er—put up thy sword into its sheath, for.... Well, anyhow. You see, the old man wouldn’t hear of it. It was no earthly good. He said he’d resign first. Put yourself in my place, my dear fellow. And then I began to be doubtful myself, too, afterwards, about it all. Come and have a drink. You look as if you were going off somewhere. What’s on now?”
“Er—I’m going away,” said Egholm nervously. “Going to open a photographic studio.”
“Well, I never,” said Karlsen, with ungrudging wonder. “And where’s it going to be? You never said a word about that before.”
“I had a studio once in Copenhagen—Østergade, a splendid position. And customers accordingly. Made any amount of money. This time I’m going to try—er—Knarreby. Quite a nice little place, don’t you think?”
(There! Now it was said.)