“I have never asked to hear your opinion about my divorced wife,” said Herman in a voice that was meant to be frigid.
But all the same there was a corner in his soul where Peter’s words did good. He could not hide his wound. Peter noticed it at once. So much sensitiveness he had left from the time of the Great Fear. Yes, yes, that is the after-swell, he thought, and moved closer up to Herman, ready to give him another dose. Then it suddenly started to rain. Big, whipping drops. Herman rose silently, taking his glass and bottle with him. Without looking at Peter he walked quickly up to the house. “I don’t mind your being short with me if it soothes you,” thought Peter, and followed him faithfully up the steps and into the smoking room.
Herman put the bottle on the table, threw himself on the sofa and stared at his toes.
Peter took the matches and lit the lamp. Then he went into the kitchen and returned with a couple of bottles of soda water and a clean glass. After that he filled Herman’s glass and prepared one for himself.
“Your health,” he said.
Herman drank deeply without replying. Then followed a moment’s silence. The rain drummed against the upper windows, and rushed down the rainpipes. A cool damp penetrated into the close room.
Peter took a cigar out of a box and lit it:
“I’ll be damned if I don’t stay the night, old boy! It feels jolly to be back at old Ekbacken again!”
Herman was still mute and seemed absorbed in the opposite wall. But when Peter drank he drank also. And that happened often. Peter thought the whiskey tasted good. Yes it really was very jolly to be sitting here at Ekbacken and see old father Hermansson’s treasures gleam behind the glass of the cupboard in the corner. He was already drinking Herman’s health, the delightful sensation of being host himself and of Herman being less secure in the place than himself. Not that he was thinking of business tonight. He could save that up for tomorrow. No, now he gave himself up to his feelings and the whiskey. And it was no small amount of feeling that he showed.
In the intervals between draining their glasses, Peter suddenly began to abuse Laura again. Was this mere calculation on his part? Did he sit there in cold blood and sacrifice the sister for his own profit? Was he, with his diabolical cunning, playing upon poor Herman’s love and hate? No, Peter really began to realise Herman’s loneliness. Was he not himself a poor bachelor too? He felt real pity for Herman. Why shouldn’t he curse Laura if it did any good to this poor devil—and to himself, also, by the way? He sat there working up his fury at the recollection of his sister’s old sarcasms. Like a mad bull he tore fiercely and passionately at the red tissue of lies, caprice, ingratitude, and cursed coquetry called woman. Yes it was a relief to him to take his revenge on the whole of the abominable sex that turned up its nose at Peter the Boss, but ran after such scamps as Brundin.