Well, he was not going to gain success by employing such methods; he hoped he would manage to get along without unfairness. He had one weapon--his pen. That was the kind of man _he_ was. He went home and locked his door. There would still be time to regain his composure before Mrs. Hanka's arrival. He tried to write, but found it impossible. He paced back and forth furiously, pale with anger, bitter and vindictive because of this defeat. He would, by Heaven, avenge this wrong; no gentle words were to flow from his pen henceforth! At last Mrs. Hanka arrived. No matter how often she had entered this apartment, she always felt a certain embarrassment at first, and she usually said in order to hide it: "Does Mr. Irgens live here?" But she noticed at once that Irgens was not in a playful mood to-day, and she asked what was the matter. When he had told her of the great calamity she, too, was indignant: "How unjust! What a scandal! Had Milde been selected?" "In payment for Paulsberg's portrait," said Irgens. "Well, it cannot be helped; don't let it irritate you; I am reconciled." "You take it beautifully; I don't see how you can." "The only effect it has on me is to make me a little bitter; it does not break my spirit." "I simply cannot understand it; no, I can't. Did you send your book with your application?" "Certainly--Oh, my book! I might as well not have written it; so far nobody seems to have noticed it. There has been no review of it so far in any of the papers." And, angry because of this newspaper neglect of his work, he gritted his teeth and walked up and down. She looked sadly at him. "Now, don't allow this to embitter you," she said. "You have great provocation, but all the same--You can live without that miserable subsidy. You know that nobody is your equal!" "And what good does that do me? Judge for yourself; my book has not been mentioned in a single newspaper!" Mrs. Hanka had for the first time--yes, for the very first time--a feeling that her hero was not the superior being she had imagined. A shuddering thought pierced her heart: he did not carry his disappointment with more than ordinary pride. She looked at him a little closer. His eyes were not so clear, his mouth was drawn and his nostrils dilated. But it was only a shuddering thought. Then he added: "You might do me the favour to try to interest Gregersen in my book, and see if he won't review it in the _Gazette_." And as he noticed that she grew more and more thoughtful, that she even looked interrogatingly straight into his eyes, he added: "Of course, you need not ask him directly--only give him a little hint, a reminder." Could this be Irgens? But she remembered at once his painful position, alone as he was, fighting a conspiracy single-handed; and she excused him. She ought to have thought of giving Gregersen a little hint herself and spared her Poet this humiliation. Yes, she certainly would speak to Gregersen at once.