Yes, he was certainly a shrewd and thrifty
soul, a real backwoods bargain-hunter. He knew what he was doing when he
even allowed his wife to accept Journalist Gregersen's beer-perfumed
attentions! Faugh, what a sordid mess!
Well, he was not going to gain success by employing such methods; he hoped
he would manage to get along without unfairness. He had one weapon--his
pen. That was the kind of man _he_ was.
He went home and locked his door. There would still be time to regain his
composure before Mrs. Hanka's arrival. He tried to write, but found it
impossible. He paced back and forth furiously, pale with anger, bitter and
vindictive because of this defeat. He would, by Heaven, avenge this wrong;
no gentle words were to flow from his pen henceforth!
At last Mrs. Hanka arrived.
No matter how often she had entered this apartment, she always felt a
certain embarrassment at first, and she usually said in order to hide it:
"Does Mr. Irgens live here?"
But she noticed at once that Irgens was not in a playful mood to-day, and
she asked what was the matter. When he had told her of the great calamity
she, too, was indignant: "How unjust! What a scandal! Had Milde been
selected?"
"In payment for Paulsberg's portrait," said Irgens.
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