Christian Christiansson dared not flinch, though the Factor's lash had cut him to the bone. With a throttled utterance he tried to plead for charity. "Oscar Stephenson never ceased to reproach himself for his share in Thora's death or to mourn----"
"It's a pretty way to mourn for one daughter to corrupt another," said the Factor.
"Corrupt?"
"What else was it? He hadn't been a year in London before he persuaded Helga to follow him."
"Mr. Neilsen, I have no right to speak for the man we are talking of, but Helga is your daughter, and if it is any comfort to you I tell you that you are wrong--I know you are wrong----"
"How do you know--he lived in the same house, didn't he?"
"Nevertheless I--I believe in my heart that whatever his failures of duty to your daughter Thora while she was alive, when she was dead he reverenced her memory too much to----"
"Was it reverencing her memory to sell the right to violate her grave, and then waste the money at the gaming-tables?"
The perspiration was breaking out on Christian Christiansson's forehead and he had forgotten the object of his errand, when the door opened and he looked up in the expectation of seeing Elin. It was only Aunt Margret again, but now washed and oiled, and wearing her spectacles.
Christian Christiansson placed a chair for the childless woman, and began to talk about the child.