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He was down-town; he had met a few acquaintances; he did not say much, but was in a satisfied frame of mind. He had taken a look at Paulsberg's great portrait which was now exhibited in the Arrow, in the large window which everybody had to pass; people crowded in front of it continually.

Milde stared at him, stared at the Attorney, and burst into a surprised laugh. "Listen to that, Grande! He asks why we need another head like Paulsberg's in this country!" "I do," said Irgens. But Grande did not laugh either, and Milde was unable to understand why his words failed to provoke mirth. He decided to pass it off; he began to speak about other things.

Of course, Tidemand had bought to sell if he could get his price. Milde had moved over to Paulsberg, and spoke to him in a low whisper. Ojen's prose poem had caused him some anxiety. Perhaps, after all, there was something to this fellow, this competitor in the matter of the subsidy. What was Paulsberg's opinion? "You know I don't care to speak for or against in such a matter," said Paulsberg.

Her beautiful forehead is not hidden beneath her hair; she carries it sweetly and candidly, like a nun. A couple of rings flash on her fingers. She breathes deeply and says to Irgens, across the table: "How hot it is here, Irgens!" Irgens gets up and goes over to open a window, but a voice is raised in protest; it is Mrs. Paulsberg's. "For Heaven's sake, no open windows.

It was his wont to go when he said he would. But after Paulsberg's departure it seemed as if they might as well all go; there was no reason to remain now. The Actor saluted and disappeared; he hurried off in order to catch up with Paulsberg. The Painter threw his ulster around himself without buttoning it, drew up his shoulders, and said: "I feel rotten!

They are brimful of new intentions, new fashions. They are fragrant with perfume in brief, there is nothing lacking. When they show up everybody else is mute: 'Silence! The poet speaks. The papers are able to inform their readers that Paulsberg is on a trip to Honefos. In a word " But this was too much for Gregersen. He himself had written the news notes about Paulsberg's trip to Honefos.

It was the latest event; why wasn't it even referred to? Everybody was only too familiar with Ojen's filigree fancies. Irgens shrugged his shoulders. Paulsberg had not indicated approval of his book by a single word. Perhaps he was waiting to be asked? But Irgens could get along without Paulsberg's opinion. Irgens rose. "Are you going?" asked Mrs. Hanka.

"Did you notice, he laughed when he said it; something must have amused him." Pause. A crowd of promenaders were sauntering continually up and down the street, back and forth, laughing and talking. Milde continued: "I have often wished that we had just one more head like Paulsberg's here in Norway." "And why, pray?" asked Irgens stiffly.

None other than oil-painter Milde, collector of ladies' corsets! Of course, he knew how it had happened; Paulsberg was behind it. Paulsberg had supported Milde's application, and Milde had painted Paulsberg's picture. A simon-pure advertising conspiracy! And when Irgens passed the Arrow and saw the painting he spat contemptuously on the pavement. He had seen through this hypocritical scurviness.

The painting was elegant and obtrusive; Paulsberg's well-groomed form looked very distinguished in the plain cane-bottomed chair, and people wondered if that was the chair in which he had written his books. All the newspapers had mentioned the picture in flattering terms. Irgens had a glass of wine in front of him and listened abstractedly to the conversation.