A narrow door with a grating in the centre. Olof stood a moment, evidently in doubt, and walked on—his heart was thumping in his breast. The consciousness of it irritated him, and turning back impatiently, he knocked loudly at the door.
No sound from within. He felt as if thousands of eyes were watching him scornfully, and for a moment he thought of flight. He knocked again, hurriedly, nervously.
A pause, that seemed unendurably long, then a sound of movement and steps approaching the door—the panel was moved aside.
"What's all the noise about?" cried a woman's shrill voice. "In a hurry, aren't you? Get along, and that quick—off with you!" The panel closed with a slam.
The blood rushed to Olof's cheeks; for a moment he felt like breaking down the door and flinging it into the street—he would gladly have pulled the house down in his fury.
Wondering faces appeared here and there at the windows. They were looking at him as if he were a criminal—a burglar trying to force an entry in broad daylight. Half-running, he hastened back to the main streets of the town. Then the fury seized him again—a passion of wounded pride and defiance. "Am I to be taken for a boy?" he said to himself angrily.
He passed a row of waiting cabs. One of the men touched his cap inquiringly, but Olof shook his head—the fellow had an honest face. The last in the row gave him what he sought—a sly red face with shifty eyes.
"Eh? Take you?… That's easy enough! I know the very house. First-rate girls, all of them, and no trouble. 'Tis the best sort you'll be wanting, I take it?"
"Yes."
"That's the style. Just step in, now, and we'll be there…."