LITMIR.BIZ

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he walked over to the Journalist's table. Milde was there, also the Attorney and Coldevin, the grey tutor from the country. They were waiting for Paulsberg. They had been discussing the situation again; it commenced to look a little dubious now when several of the leading parliamentarians had shown symptoms of vacillation. "Just as I have told you," said Milde, "it is beginning to be unbearable here!"

      Mrs. Grande was not present. Mrs. Liberia stayed at home.

      The Journalist reported that the talk about crop failures in Russia evidently had something in it. It could not be concealed much longer in spite of the fact that the correspondent of the London Times had been sharply contradicted by the Russian press.

      "I had a letter from Ojen," said Milde. "It looks as if he were coming back soon; he does not appear to enjoy himself out in the woods."

      All these matters did not interest Irgens in the least. He made up his mind to get away as soon as he could. Coldevin said nothing, but glanced from one to another with his sombre eyes. When he had been presented to Irgens he had murmured a few words, sat down again and remained silent. Irgens looked at him languidly and was silent too. When he had finished his seidel he got up to go.

      "Are you leaving us so soon?"

      "Yes; I have got to go home and dress. I am going to Tivoli. See you later."

      Irgens left.

      "There you see the famous Irgens," said the Attorney to Coldevin.

      "Yes, indeed," answered Coldevin with a smile. "I see so much greatness here that I am getting altogether bewildered. I saw the Art Exhibition to-day—It seems to me that our poets are beginning to pay considerable attention to their personal appearance; I have seen a couple of them; they are so groomed and patent-leathered—one can hardly say they come thundering along with foam-flecked bridles."

      "Why should they? The fashions have changed, you know."

      "I suppose so."

      Coldevin was again silent.

      "The fire-and-sword period has passed by, my good man," said the Journalist patronisingly, yawning across the table. "What the devil can be keeping Paulsberg?"

      When Paulsberg at last showed up they made room for him with alacrity; the Journalist sat close by him and wanted to hear his opinion concerning the situation. What did these events portend—what could be done now?

      Paulsberg, reserved and taciturn as always, gave a half reply, a fragmentary opinion: What could be done? Oh, one had to try to live even if a couple of parliamentarians were to fail the cause. All the same, he was going to publish an article soon; it would be worth while observing what effect that would have. He was going to give it to the traitors good and proper.

      Goodness! Was he going to publish an article? That certainly would put matters right. "Not too gentle, now, Paulsberg; don't show them any consideration."

      "I imagine Paulsberg knows exactly how gentle he is going to be," said Milde reprovingly. "You can safely leave that to him."

      "Of course," answered the Journalist, "that goes without saying. I had no idea of offering any suggestions."

      He was a little offended, but Paulsberg smoothed matters over by saying:

      "I thank you for the two notices, Gregersen. It is fortunate for us that you keep an eye on us; otherwise people would entirely forget that we writers existed."

      The Attorney ordered another round.

      "I am waiting for my wife," said Paulsberg.

      "She stopped in to borrow a hundred from Ole Henriksen. I see there is talk about famine in Russia—Well, I can't say that I have starved as yet."

      Milde turned to Coldevin and remarked pompously:

      "That is something it wouldn't hurt you to know out in the country: so shabbily does Norway treat her great men!"

      Coldevin glanced from one to another.

      "Indeed," he said, "it is sad." A moment later he added: "Well, one cannot say things are much better out in the country. The struggle to live is bitter there, too."

      "But, so help me, there is a difference between poets and peasants, I should think!"

      "In the country people adjust themselves to the law that the weak must perish," said Coldevin quietly. "For instance, people who cannot support a wife do not marry. If they do, and if they later on have to rely on others to discharge their obligations, then they are disgraced, branded with shame."

      Everybody looked at the bald fellow; even Paulsberg snatched his glasses that were hanging on a cord across his breast, looked at him a moment, and asked in a stage whisper:

      "What in the world—what kind of a phenomenon is that?"

      This happy word made the friends smile; Paulsberg was asking what kind of a phenomenon this was, a phenomenon—he, he! It was not often Paulsberg said that much. Coldevin looked unconcerned; he did not smile. A pause ensued.

      Paulsberg looked out of the window, shivered a little, and murmured:

      "Drat it, I cannot get anything accomplished these days; this eternal sunshine has played me the scurvy trick of paralysing my imagination. I am in the middle of a descriptive passage about a rainy season, a raw and chilly milieu, and I cannot get anywhere with it." He mumbled maledictions about the weather.

      The Attorney was incautious enough to remark:

      "Why don't you write about the sunshine, then?"

      It was not many days since Paulsberg himself, in Milde's studio, had bluntly expressed an opinion to the effect that Attorney Grande had showed symptoms of a certain arrogance lately. He was right, the Attorney was becoming a little impertinent; it might be well to put him in his place once and for all.

      "You talk according to your lights!" said the Journalist oracularly.

      This reproach was received in silence; but shortly afterward Grande got up and buttoned his coat.

      "I don't suppose any of you are going my way?" he asked in order not to show any ill feeling. And as nobody answered he paid his check, said goodbye and left.

      More drinks were ordered. Mrs. Paulsberg arrived in the company of Ole and his fiancée. Coldevin moved as far back as he could until he found himself almost at another table.

      "We had to accompany Mrs. Paulsberg," said Ole good-naturedly; "we couldn't let her go alone." And he slapped Paulsberg on the shoulder.

      Miss Aagot had let a joyous exclamation escape her and had walked straight over to Coldevin, to whom she gave her hand. But what in the world had become of him? Hadn't she kept a continuous lookout for him on the streets and asked Ole about him every day? She was at a loss to understand why she saw him so rarely. She had had another letter from home, and everybody sent him their kindest regards. Why did he keep so entirely to himself?

      Coldevin stuttered many brief replies: there was no end of things to see and do, exhibitions and museums, Tivoli and Parliament; there were newspapers to read, lectures to attend; he also had to look up a few old friends. Furthermore, it was best not to disturb a newly engaged couple too much.

      Coldevin smiled archly; his lips trembled a little and he spoke with bowed head.

      Ole came over, overwhelmed him with the same reproaches, and received the same excuses. Coldevin was going to call on them to-morrow, though, they could rely on it; he had made up his mind before he met them. Provided he would not disturb them, of course.

      Disturb? He? What was he thinking of?

      Beer was served and everybody talked. Mrs. Paulsberg crossed her legs and gripped the glass in her masculine fashion. The Journalist monopolised her immediately. Ole continued his conversation with Coldevin.

      "I hope you are enjoying yourself here? Interesting people, these! There is Lars Paulsberg; have you met

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