“’Tis misusing such eyes to trouble them looking at me,” said he.
Whereat she blushed.
He asked her again, “Don’t you miss things, living away from town?”
“Oh no,” she answered. “It’s nice living here too. But look here, wouldn’t you care to walk up and spend the day with us now?”
Rolandsen thanked her, and was sorry he could not. Sunday or Monday, it was all one to the telegraph station. “But I thank you all the same,” he said. “There’s one thing I envy the priest, and that is you.”
“What do you...?”
“Politely, but firmly, I envy him his wife.”
There—he had done it now. Surely it would be hard to find the like of Ove Rolandsen for shedding little joys abroad.
“What ridiculous things you do say,” said Fruen, when she had recovered herself a little.
But Rolandsen, walking back homeward, reflected that, taking it all round, he had had a nice day. In his intoxication and triumph he dwelt on the fact that this young wife, the priest’s wife, was so inclined to stop and talk with him at times. He formed his own ideas about it, and grew cunning, ay, he began already to plot and plan. Why should not Fruen herself get rid of Jomfru van Loos for him, and file through his fetters? He could not ask it of her directly, no—but there were other ways. Who could say? Perhaps she would do him that service, since they were such good friends.