IV
Rolandsen sits in his laboratory, hard at work. Looking out from the window he marks how a certain branch of a certain tree in the wood moves up and down. Somebody must be shaking it, but the leaves are too thick for him to see more. Rolandsen goes back to his work.
But somehow the work seemed to clog to-day. He took his guitar and tried singing one of his joyful laments, but even that failed to please him. The spring was come, and Rolandsen was troubled.
Elise Mack was come; he had met her the evening before. Proud and haughty she was, and carried herself like a lady; it seemed as if she would have tried to please him a little with a touch of kindliness here and there, but he would have none of it.
“I saw the telegraph people at Rosengaard before I left,” she said.
But Rolandsen had no wish to claim friendship with the telegraph people; he was no colleague of theirs. She was trying to emphasise the distance between herself and him once more—ho-ho! He would pay her out for that!
“You must teach me the guitar some day,” she said.
Now this was a thing to start at and to accept with thanks. But Rolandsen would have none of it. On the contrary, he would pay her out on the spot. He said:
“Very pleased, I’m sure. Whenever you like. You can have my guitar.”
Yes, that was the way he treated her. As if she were any but Elise Mack, a lady worth ten thousand guitars.