“No, but you needn’t go out to service. There’s no sense in our children going out to service in the houses of the employers. Don’t you agree with me?” He turned to Pelle.
Ellen laughed brightly. “It’s all the same—father works for the employers as well.”
“Yes, but that’s a different thing. It’s from one fixed hour to another, and then it’s over. But this other work is a home; she goes from one home to another and undertakes all the dirty work.”
“Father’s not in a position to keep me at home.”
“I know that very well, but all the same I can’t bear it. Besides, you could surely get some other kind of work.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to! I claim the right to dispose of myself!” she replied heatedly.
The others sat silent, looking nervously at one another. The veins swelled on Stolpe’s forehead; he was purple, and terribly angry. But Ellen looked at him with a little laugh. He got up and went grumbling into the other room.
Her mother shook her head at Ellen. She was quite pale. “Oh, child, child!” she whispered.
After a while Stolpe returned with some old newspapers, which he wanted to show Pelle. Ellen stood behind his chair, looking down at them; she rested her arm on his shoulders and idly ruffled his hair. The mother pulled at her skirt. The papers were illustrated, and went back to the stirring times.
The clock struck the half-hour; it was half-past eleven. Pelle rose in consternation; he had quite forgotten the time.