Anna had no grounds for disapproval, but, none the less, she murmured:
“H’m. A fellow like that....”
The family had reached the outskirts of the town. As they walked on, curtains were moved aside, and a nose-tip here and there showed through. In the little shops, the shopkeepers dropped their paper bags and crowded with their customers to see.
Hedvig enjoyed being thus a centre of attraction. She arranged the newspaper-holder, the plaster figure, and the lamp in a specially attractive fashion, drew herself up, tossed her head, and only wished they might have to walk all through the town. As it happened, she was disappointed.
Egholm, whose fingers were getting sore with holding the pictures, tripped on faster.
“There—that’s where I live,” he said, out of breath. “Pick up your legs a bit, can’t you?”
“Where?”
“The grey house there, with the gateway.”
All else was forgotten now in the anxiety to see the place that was to be their home. It was a long, low house. A gateway, two narrow shop-windows, a door, and four pairs of windows beside. Over the entrance was a placard inscribed with black letters on a white ground: “H. Andreasen. Coffins and Funeral Furnishings.”