Peter coughed before he came up to them, a wonderful act of delicacy on his part.
Then the nurse came to put little Georg to bed. Herman started up as if in alarm. He lifted the boy up in his arms as if to kiss him, but put him down again and sank back on the seat beside Peter.
“I hope you have not talked about me—you have not told the nurse who I am,” he muttered.
“Not a word,” Peter assured him.
But Herman felt all the same a pang in his heart. “Then Laura won’t hear of it,” he thought. “And she won’t be forced to give me a thought.” And he hated himself because he could not help feeling a cold emptiness. In one draught he emptied the glass before him.
But Peter carefully slipped into business. He did not of course speak of Herman’s bill that was due or of the affairs of Ekbacken at all. He only said that he had met somebody who wanted to invest about fifty thousand crowns on good security. And then he had thought of Herman at once. Times were difficult and working capital always useful.
Herman did not seem to hear at first. Then his face contracted at the thought of this wretched business. And then he suddenly assumed the cold, severe, businesslike tone which is so often found in very impatient people:
“Terms? Interest?”
“Not bad—six per cent—”
“If I am to consider the proposition I must have half tomorrow against my promissory note until the bills of sale are redeemed.”