“Whiskey? Oh, no, thank you, no.”
“As you like. I’ll send for it, if you wish.”
“Why should you—trouble?”
“Oh, it’s no trouble. I’ll send, then.”
The deacon coughed again, much as if a crumb had got into his throat, and carefully examined the ceiling.
“Fèkla!” called the choir-master rather timidly.
There was no answer.
Several minutes of embarrassing silence followed. The tenors and basses cautiously seated themselves round the walls, while in the bedroom the furniture creaked angrily; the boys whispered in the ante-room. The choir-master sat looking at the door, but, seeing that the servant did not come, muttered to himself: “What’s come to her?” and went into the bedroom. There another whispered conversation began.
“Can’t you understand?” exclaimed the choir-master, trying to impress upon his wife the necessity of sending for whiskey.
“There’s nothing to understand. I know you’re always glad of a chance to get drunk with anybody. What’s the use of trying to fool me?”