“You wished to speak to me, sir?” asked Frithiof. “Yes, when I have finished this letter. You can wait,” said Mr. Horner ungraciously. He waited quietly, thinking to himself how different was the manner both of Mr. Boniface and of his son, who were always as courteous to their employees as to their customers, and would have thought themselves as little justified in using such a tone to one of the men as of employing the slave-whip. Mr. Horner, flattering himself that he was producing an impression and emphasizing the difference between their respective positions, finished his letter, signed his name with a flourish characteristic of his opinion of himself, then swung round his chair and glanced at Frithiof. “Mr. Boniface left no instructions as to whether you were to attend as usual at St. James’s Hall to-night,” he began. “But since no one else is used to the work I suppose there is no help for it.” He paused, apparently expecting some rejoinder, but Frithiof merely stood there politely attentive. “Since you know the work, and are used to it, you had better attend as usual, for I should be vexed if any hitch should occur in the arrangements. But understand, pray, that I strongly disapprove of your remaining in our employ at all, and that it is only out of necessity that I submit to it, for I consider you unfit to mix with respectable people.” Whatever the Norwegian felt, he managed to preserve a perfectly unmoved aspect. Mr. Horner, who wanted to stir him into indignant expostulation, was sorely disappointed that his remarks fell so flat. “I see you intend to brazen it out,” he said crushingly. “But you don’t deceive me. You may leave the room, and take good care that all the arrangements to-night are properly carried out.” “Yes, sir,” said Frithiof, with the quietness of one who knows that he remains master of the situation. But afterward, when he was once more in the shop, the insults returned to his mind with full force, and lay rankling there for many a day to come. Owing to the concert, his release came a little sooner than usual, and it was not much after seven when Sigrid heard him at the door. His face frightened her; it looked so worn and harassed. “You will have time for some supper?” she asked pleadingly. “No,” he said, passing by her quickly, “I am not hungry, and must change my clothes and be off again.” “He might fancy some coffee,” said Sigrid to herself. “Quick, Swanhild, run and get it ready while I boil the water. There is nothing like strong _café noir_ when one is tired out.” Perhaps it did him some good; and the glimpse of his home certainly cheered him; yet, nevertheless, he was almost ready that night to give up everything in despair.