"Well, what of it? That means nothing to me. Well, if you like—"
"No, not if I like," she said sadly. "You seem so indifferent, Irgens! Yes, I admit I should like to go to the opera, but—Where are you going this evening? I am just like a compass-needle now: I oscillate, I may even swing all the way round, but I hark constantly back to one point—I point continually in one direction. It is you I am thinking of always."
Her little bewildered heart trembled. He looked at her. He knew it only too well—there was nothing he could reproach her with; she had been more than good to him. However, all he could promise was that he would come if at all possible.
* * * * *
Mrs. Hanka had left. Irgens was ready to go out; he put his proof-sheets in his pocket and took his hat. Had he forgotten anything? He had the proofs; that was the most important thing at present—the beginning of a book which was to startle the community with the suddenness of an explosion. He was going to see if his quiet industry would be denied appreciation. He, too, was going to send in an application for the government subsidy; he would delay until the very last day in order to avoid having his name paraded in the daily press alongside all those nonentities who already were licking their chops in anticipation of this modest emolument. His application should be brief and to the point, without recommendations, simply accompanied by his book. He would tell nobody, not even Mrs. Hanka. They should not be able to say that he had moved heaven and earth in order to secure this well-earned encouragement. But he was curious to see if they would ignore him. He knew all his fellow applicants, from Milde to Ojen; he did not fear any of them. He would have preferred to stand back and yield his right to this charity, but he could not afford it; he was obliged to accept it.
He brushed his clothes carefully all the way down the street; a little of the grey wool still clung to him—what a provoking dress! He dropped into a printing-office with his proofs. The foreman called his attention to a letter, an envelope with something enclosed, which he found between the sheets. Irgens turned in the door. A letter? Oh, yes; he had forgotten it. He knew this envelope and he opened it at once. When he had seen what was in it he lifted his brows, greatly pleased. The envelope he put in his pocket without further ado.
Ole and Aagot were in the warehouse. She was sewing on some red plush cushions for the cabin of the Aagot—doll cushions, one would almost think, they were so small. Irgens put his cheek to one of them, closed his eyes, and said, "Good night, good night."
"So you are going to the Art Exhibition!" said Ole smilingly. "Aagot has hardly spoken about anything else all day."
"Couldn't you come, too?" she asked.
But Ole had no time; just now he was very busy. "Be off—don't disturb me any more; out with you! Have a good time!"