So here I am once more in the crush and noise of a city, with its newspapers and people. I have been away from all this for many months now, and find it not unpleasant. I spend a morning taking it all in; get hold of some other clothes, and set off to find Fr?ken Elisabeth at her address. She was staying with some relatives.

And now — should I be lucky enough to meet the other one? I am restless as a boy. My hands are vulgarly unused to gloves, and I pull them off; then going up the step I notice that my hands do not go at all well with the clothes I am wearing, and I put on my gloves again. Then I ring the bell.

“Fr?ken Elisabeth? Yes, would you wait a moment?”

Fr?ken Elisabeth comes out. “Goddag. You wished to speak to. . . . Oh, is it you?”

I had brought a parcel from her mother. V?rsaagod.

She tears open the parcel and looks inside. “Oh, fancy Mama thinking of that. The opera-glasses! We’ve been to the theatre already. . . . I didn’t recognize you at first.”

“Really! It’s not so very long since. . . . ”

“No, but. . . . Tell me, isn’t there any one else you’d like to inquire about? Haha!”

“Yes,” said I.

“Well, she’s not here. I’m only staying here with my relations. No, she’s at the Victoria.”

“Well, the parcel was for you,” said I, trying to master my disappointment.

“Wait a minute. I was just going out again; we can go together.”

Fr?ken Elisabeth puts on some over-things, calls out through a door to say she won’t be very long, and goes out with me. We take a cab and drive to a quiet café. Fr?ken Elisabeth says yes, she loves going to cafés. But there’s nothing very amusing about this one.

Would she rather go somewhere else?

“Yes. To the Grand.”

I hesitated; it might be hardly safe. I had been away for a long time now, and if we met any one I knew I might have to talk to them. But Fr?kenen insisted on Grand. She had had but a few days’ practice in the capital, and had already gained a deal of self-assurance. But I liked her so much before.

We drove off again to Grand. It was getting towards evening. Fr?kenen picks out a seat right in the brightest spot, beaming all over herself at the fun of it. I ordered some wine.

“What fine clothes you’re wearing now,” she says, with a laugh.

“I couldn’t very well come in here in a workman’s blouse.”

“No, of course not. But, honestly, that blouse . . . shall I tell you what I think?”

“Yes, do.”

“The blouse suited you better.”

There! Devil take these town clothes! I sat there with my head full of other things, and did not care for this sort of talk.

“Are you staying long in town?” I asked.

“As long as Lovise does. We’ve finished our shopping. No, I’m sorry; it’s all too short.” Then she turns gay once more, and asks laughingly: “Did you like being with us out in the country?”

“Yes. That was a pleasant time.”

“And will you come again soon? Haha!”

She seemed to be making fun of me. Trying, of course, to show she saw through me: that I hadn’t played — my part well enough as a country labourer. Child that she was! I could teach many a labourer his business, and had more than one trade at my finger-ends. Though in my true calling I manage to achieve just the next best of all I dream. . . .

“Shall I ask Papa to put up a notice on the post next spring, to say you’re willing to lay down water-pipes and so on?”

She closed her eyes and laughed — so heartily she laughed.

I am torn with excitement, and her merriment pains me, though it is all good-humoured enough. I glance round the place, trying to pull myself together; here and there an acquaintance nods to me, and I return it; it all seems so far away to me. I was sitting with a charming girl, and that made people notice us.

“You know these people, it seems?”

“Yes, one or two of them. Have you enjoyed yourself in town?”

“Oh yes, immensely. I’ve two boy cousins here, and then there were their friends as well.”

“Poor young Erik, out in the country,” said I jestingly.

“Oh, you with your young Erik. No, there’s one here in town; his name’s Bewer. But I’m not friends with him just now.”

“Oh, that won’t last long.”

“Do you think so? Really, though, I’m rather serious about it. I’ve an idea he might be coming in here this evening.”

“You must point him out to me if he does.”

“I thought, as we drove out here, that you and I could sit here together, you know, and make him jealous.”

“Right, then, we will.”

“Yes, but. . . . No, you’d have to be a bit younger. I mean. . . . ”

I forced myself to laugh. Oh, we would manage all right. Don’t despise us old ones, us ancient ones, we can be quite surprisingly useful at times. “Only you’d better let me sit on the sofa beside you there, so he can’t see I’m bald at the back.”

Eh, but it is hard to take that perilous transition to old age in any quiet and beautiful way. There comes a forcedness, a play of jerky effort and grimaces, the fight against those younger than ourselves, and envy.

“Fr?ken. . . . ” I ask this of her now with all my heart. “Fr?ken, couldn’t you ring up Fru Falkenberg and get her to come round here now?”

She thinks for a moment.

“Yes, we will,” she says generously.

We go out to the telephone, ring up the Victoria: Fruen is there.

............