She shook her head. “No, I never come out here any more. Olaf doesn’t like it. I must live up to my position, you know.”
“You mean to tell me you never come out and chat with the boys, as you used to? He has tamed you! Who keeps up these flower-beds?”
“I come out on Sundays, when father is alone, and read the Bohemian papers to him. But I am never here when the bar is open. What have you two been doing?”
“Talking, as I told you. I’ve been telling him about my travels. I find I can’t talk much at home, not even to Eric.”
Clara reached up and poked with her riding-whip at a white moth that was fluttering in the sunlight among the vine leaves. “I suppose you will never tell me about all those things.”
“Where can I tell them? Not in Olaf’s house, certainly. What’s the matter with our talking here?” He pointed persuasively with his hat to the bushes and the green table, where the flies were singing lazily above the empty beer-glasses.
Clara shook her head weakly. “No, it wouldn’t do. Besides, I am going now.”
“I’m on Eric’s mare. Would you be angry if I overtook you?”
Clara looked back and laughed. “You might try and see. I can leave you if I don’t want you. Eric’s mare can’t keep up with Norman.”
Nils went into the bar and attempted to pay his score. Big Joe, six feet four, with curly yellow hair and mustache, clapped him on the shoulder. “Not a God-damn a your money go in my drawer, you hear? Only next time you bring your flute, te-te-te-te-te-ty.” Joe wagged his fingers in imitation of the flute-player’s position. “My Clara, she come all-a-time Sundays an’ play for me. She not like to play at Ericson’s place.” He shook his yellow curls and laughed. “Not a God-damn a fun at Ericson’s. You come a Sunday. You like-a fun. No forget de flute.” Joe talked very rapidly and always tumbled over his English. He seldom spoke it to his customers, and had never learned much.