Ma's face, anxiously disturbed, followed him here and there in the doorways, and Thinka glided in and out without breaking the silence.
When he came in, the supper-table was spread—herring salad, decorated with red beets and slices of hard boiled eggs, and a glass of brandy by the side of it—and then half salted trout and a good bottle of beer.
Father was possibly not quite insensible, but extremely reticent. You could absolutely get only words of one syllable in answer to the most ingeniously conceived questions!
"The sheriff is going to marry again, they say; it is absolutely certain!" he let fall at last, as the first agreeable news he knew from the outer world; "Scharfenberg's youngest."
The remark was followed by deep silence, even if a gleam of perfect contentment glided over Thinka's face, and she busied herself with eating. They both felt that his ill-humor came from this.
"That man can say he is lucky with his daughters—Bine soon in a parsonage, and now Andrea the sheriff's wife! Perhaps you can get a position there, Thinka, when you need it some day, as governess for the children, or housekeeper; she won't be obliged to do more in the house than just what she pleases; she can afford it."
Thinka, blushing to the roots of her hair, kept her eyes on her plate.
"Yes, yes, Ma, as you make your bed you must lie in it in this world."
No more was said before Thinka cleared off the table, when Ma apologetically exclaimed, "Poor Thinka!"
The captain wheeled towards her on the floor with his fingers in the armholes of his vest and blinked indignantly at her.