"Naughty, naughty dog! Outside, Mirre, Mirre, do you hear!"
She faced round, and waved her dripping umbrella at an eager poodle with its tongue hanging out.
"Here she is!" cried young Karlsen. And at once the room was so still that the scraping of the dog could be heard against the flooring. All mouths stood open, as if in one long indrawn breath of astonishment.
Still scolding under her breath, she walked with some embarrassment a few steps forward. Young Karlsen thrust Egholm aside, and hurried to meet her with a bow.
"Dog's all right," he said, with reassuring ease of manner. "Don't bother about him. Late? Not a bit of it; we've hardly begun. Just sitting talking, heart to heart, you understand. Come along in, both of you. Know me, doggy, don't you, eh?"
"He--he must have slipped out and followed me. I'd no idea...."
Young Karlsen's eyeballs rolled about, to see what impression the lady made upon the congregation. And he was not disappointed. If St. John the Apostle, the traditional founder of the sect, had appeared in their midst, it could hardly have created a greater sensation.
Egholm had himself been something of a thunderbolt--an ex-official of the railway service suddenly appearing in this assembly of hunchbacked tailors and lame shoemakers, relics from the almshouses, and all that was worn out and faded--always excepting, of course, the prosperous ironmonger at their head. But Fru Westergaard was as an earthquake that sent them flat on their faces at once. Not a child in the town but knew her and her villa and her dog, that took its meals with her at table.
Johannes, the postman, stood leaning against the wall, helpless, as if in terror.
Madam[1] Kvist, her eyes starting out behind her glasses, asked aloud, in unaffected wonder:
[1] "Madam," the title used for elderly--strictly speaking, married--women of the working class, as distinct from "Fru" (Mrs.), which is--or was--reserved for ladies of higher social standing.
"Why--what in the name of mercy will she be wanting here?"
And Madam Strand, the dustman's wife, a little black figure of a woman, was curtseying and mumbling continually: "Such an honour, did you ever, such an honour...."
Most of those present inwardly endorsed the sentiment.