“But the town?” she asked in surprise. “Where is it?”
“Right up there in the bay. See the red church-tower there, and the Custom House—that yellow place standing out against the great black woods? The town’s as sheltered as a bird in its nest. And look, that’s Jutland over there—see how close it looks, and the two lines of coast all soft against each other. Looks almost as if they were dancing.”
“And look at the white sails on the blue water!”
“Yes. I know that one with the topsail. That’s Etatsraad Brodersen’s. You know, ‘Brodersen’s Pure Grape.’ He’s the great man of the town.”
“It’s a lovely place.”
“Ah, but wait till it’s summer, and the beeches are out,” said Egholm, with bright eyes. “We’ll go out one day together. I’ll show you it all.”
Tears welled up into Anna’s eyes. What a marvellous place was this Knarreby, that could so change her husband altogether! Actually running down the platform to meet them as if it had been visitors of rank. And no grumbling or scolding because the train was late.
Egholm was himself moved. He blinked his eyes and looked away.
Out on the Belt, Brodersen’s cutter was cruising about. It was on the water early this year. There—it was tacking now. Stood for a moment straight as a white church, and then off on the new tack. Heavens, how it heeled over! Why don’t they let go the sheet? Ah, there she was up again! But Egholm had somehow slipped out of his former joyous mood, and said a trifle absently and wearily:
“Yes, it’s a pretty place; that’s true.”