Stellan sent one of the servants for a jug of fresh water, straight from the well.
The Count filled a champagne glass, sipped it a little and leant slightly back with half-closed eyes:
“Water is so pleasant,” he mumbled. “It taste of nothing, absolutely nothing.... And everything is so calm in Sweden. You shoot so surprisingly seldom indoors or in the streets. It is like a sanatorium. And all the ladies look like nurses, charming nurses—except Laura of course....”
Then Count Alexis’ glance fell upon Old Enoch, who hung over the green sofa opposite him. He started as if a real live person had suddenly stood up, as if there were a hitherto unnoticed guest in the room.
“Whom does this excellent portrait represent?”
“It is our grandfather,” Stellan hastened to answer. “Enoch Selamb, a landed proprietor. He was a clever agriculturist in his day.”
The time was past when Stellan indulged in any playful truths about his ancestors.
Peter had already in secret found time to drink a good deal, and looked somewhat bloated.
“He was a damned rascal,” he cut in contentedly, “a real old rascal. You couldn’t cheat him....”
He stopped when Stellan trampled on his feet and turned back to his bird and his wine. But Laura skittishly made the sign of the cross before her ancestor.