Egholm stepped across and shut the door behind them; then, turning to his wife, he brought his face close down to hers, and whispered in a voice that seethed like a leak in an overheated boiler:
“Look here! You’re not going to come along and ruin the business for me now, so don’t you think it. If I can see to do my developing, you can see to cook. You understand?”
And he went on with a further flow of words, furious, though subdued.
Fru Egholm writhed.
“But, Egholm ... there’s no room! I can’t even see the stove.... Oh....”
She still clung to a faint hope that he might be brought to see things with her eyes, and realise how unreasonable it was to ask her.
“Very well. I’ll give you a lamp. My dark-room lamp should be about here somewhere.”
His fingers moved among rattling bottles on the stove.
“Here it is—no. Now, where the devil....”