No one ought to come late to a ball. He looked at the clock, it was past eleven and not only just ten as he had thought; either he had got home too late or he had stayed reading too long. A few young men, heated and perspiring who just came out through the smoke--each time the door was opened there was a good deal of smoky fog--wished him good-evening, thereby settling the fact of his arrival, so he pursued his way mechanically and took off his outdoor garments. In the passages were more heated and perspiring people. The one seemed to be running away just because the other ran, their conversation was meaningless, their eyes wild, their laughter like a tum-rum-tumming. There came ladies, too, three and four together, looking very much like full-blown roses; they laughed about nothing, talked about nothing, quite ready to be carried off through music and chattering. The instruments were worn out, the lights were in a hazy mist, the chandeliers a gold red color. The ball was overcrowded; it was difficult to make one's way through all the men who stood disengaged near the door; they were all together in a clump, a mixture of coarse and fine--a truly Norwegian mixture. A waltz was being danced, part of the cotillon. Tall as Kallem was, he could soon see, now that his glasses were dry again, that his sister was not among the dancers, probably not in the room at all. But he forgot her, for in some respects this was an entirely new sight for him; he knew nothing of Norwegian life but the west country and Christiania. A ball in a little Norwegian provincial town is a peculiar thing. Ladies and gentlemen who would adorn any grand Parisian ball, move easily and lightly about among young people who take things heavily in daily life, never having learnt the art of dancing, but pound away in time with unabashed honesty. Men in tail-coats, men in frock-coats, women in low-necked ball-dresses, women in plain black stuff dresses, some elderly, some quite young, everyone enjoying themselves in his or her own particular way.