The figure was smoking a cigar and bending down as if to talk.
To whom?—To whom?
For it was Ludvig Veyergang's, that narrow, straight back, that seemed in its pride as if it could not bend above the hips.
And then that way with his arm and his eye-glass.
Now he was gone; he must be dancing.
The clear glimpse he could get through the little opening in the blind was dimmed by moisture. Only when a heavy drop ran down the pane in the heat inside, could he catch a fraction of a glimpse through the streak.
There came Veyergang's shadow, with stick and hat again, and lower down the crooked outline of a woman's head in lively gesticulation.
Again the figure with the stick disappeared, and Nikolai prepared to watch for it.
A drop just wept a smooth streak down the pane, and the next moment he caught a glimpse of a dancing figure—only a bent head and a half-hidden face.
He had seen enough—more than if he had had a hundred chandeliers to see by.