"A great opera-singer."
"Then she's rich, I suppose?"
"In the way of being so, perhaps, but famous at all events, and a favorite all over Europe."
The Factor was silent for a moment, leaning on his stick; then he said:
"Well, that will suit her mother, I daresay. As for me I don't think it matters. It's ten years since Helga Neilsen left Iceland, and I've never seen the scribe of a line from her since. If she's rich I'm poor and she doesn't care anything about it. What I call a daughter is one who remembers her father when he is old and past work and the world has got its heel on him. I had a daughter like that once, but they killed her between them--they killed her between them, I say."
The old man's voice was breaking, and thinking to comfort him Christian Christiansson said, hardly knowing what he was saying:
"I heard of your trouble, Mr. Neilsen."
"When did you hear of it? Helga couldn't have told you. She had too much to do with her sister's death to talk of it. Did you, perhaps--in those days you speak of--did you know my daughter's husband?"
"Yes," said Christian Christiansson, for in that heart-quelling moment there seemed to be no escape from it.
"Then you knew a scoundrel, sir," said the Factor.