He did not take his eyes from the window
for a long time. One would have thought he was anxious to find Ole
Henriksen but did not know whether he was in the warehouse or not.
II
Irgens was sitting in his room, Thranes Road, No. 5. He was in fine
spirits. The elegant man whom nobody suspected of doing anything sat there
in all secret and corrected proofs and slaved like a farmer. Who would
have believed it? He was the one in the clique who talked least about his
work; nobody could understand how he managed to live. It was more than two
years since his drama had been published, and he had apparently not done a
stroke of work since. Of course, he might be working quietly, but nobody
knew anything about it, nothing definitely. He owed a lot of money.
Irgens had locked his door so as not to be disturbed; he was very
secretive. When he had finished his proof-reading he got up and looked out
of the window. The weather was bright and sunny, a glorious day. He was
going to take Miss Lynum to the Art Exhibition at three. He looked forward
to this pleasure; it was really enjoyable to listen to this
unsophisticated girl's chatter.
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