Vang was seated in the middle of the bed, with his hat on, and a cold cigar at one corner of his mouth. The bed had sunk under the weight of his heavy frame; the dirty sheets and spotted blankets were twirled up as by a waterspout.
“My husband wrote about you,” Fru Egholm stammered with an effort. She stood holding her flower-pot and her parcels as if dreading to soil the paint of table and seats.
“Him and me,” said Vang in a solemn bass, letting his chin fall forward on his chest—“him and me we’ve been as one. But I’m going now, all right.”
“Why, what for?” said Egholm, touched. “There’s no need....” He took Vang’s arm.
“Ah, but I must. Henrik Vang can’t stay where there’s women about.”
“What’s turned you so serious all at once?”
Vang smoothed the bedclothes, evidently embarrassed.
“It’s not just making a fuss, to be asked again. I know I’d rather stay. Where should I go to, anyway?”
“You’ve a charming wife at home,” said Egholm mischievously. “But stay here if you like. I’ll be only too pleased.”
“Home? I’d rather walk in water up to my neck the rest of the day. But if you really mean it—if you’ll let me stay where I am—still as a mouse, and never disturb a soul, why, I’d just love it.”