“Oh, you with your young Erik. No, there's one here in town; his name's Bewer. But I'm not friends with him just now.”
“Oh, that won't last long.”
“Do you think so? Really, though, I'm rather serious about it. I've an idea he might be coming in here this evening.”
“You must point him out to me if he does.”
“I thought, as we drove out here, that you and I could sit here together, you know, and make him jealous.”
“Right, then, we will.”
“Yes, but.... No, you'd have to be a bit younger. I mean....”
I forced myself to laugh. Oh, we would manage all right. Don't despise us old ones, us ancient ones, we can be quite surprisingly useful at times. “Only you'd better let me sit on the sofa beside you there, so he can't see I'm bald at the back.”
Eh, but it is hard to take that perilous transition to old age in any quiet and beautiful way. There comes a forcedness, a play of jerky effort and grimaces, the fight against those younger than ourselves, and envy.
“Frøken....” I ask this of her now with all my heart. “Frøken, couldn't you ring up Fru Falkenberg and get her to come round here now?”