The only thing she
can be trusted with is the entering of endless orders in the books, and
this she does carefully and conscientiously.
Ole looks at her and says suddenly:
"Lord, what tiny hands you have, Aagot! He, he! they are next to nothing.
I can't understand how you can get along with them."
That is enough. Aagot throws down her pen and runs over to him. And they
are happy and silly until the next slate arrives.
"Little Mistress!" he says smilingly, and looks down into her eyes,
"Little Mistress!"
Time passes. At last the work is done, the accounts finished, and Ole
says, while he slams the ledger shut:
"Well, I have got to go and send some wires. Are you coming along?"
"Yes, dear, if you'll let me!" she answers. And she trips along, greatly
pleased.
On the way Ole remembers that he has not as yet presented his sweetheart
to Irgens. "You ought to meet this fellow Irgens," he says; "he is a great
man, one of the deep talents; everybody says so." Suppose they went as far
as the Grand; he might be there.
They entered the Grand, passed by the tables where people sat drinking
and smoking, and found Irgens far back in the room.
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