"It's himself he means," put in Falkenberg, anxious to keep well out of
it.

"Well, and I don't mind saying it is. _Paratum cor meum_."

But Emma was ungracious, and didn't care to talk to me, for all I was
better at languages than Falkenberg. What--could I not even master Emma?
Well ... I turned proud and silent after that, and went my own ways,
making drawings for that machine of mine and little models. And when
Falkenberg was singing of an evening, and Fruen listening, I went across
to the men's quarters and stayed there with them. Which, of course, was
much more dignified. The only trouble about it was that Petter was ill in
bed, and couldn't stand the noise of ax and hammer, so I had to go outside
every time I'd any heavy piece of work to do.

Still, now and again I fancied Fruen might perhaps be sorry, after all, at
missing my company in the kitchen. It looked so, to me. One evening, when
we were at supper, she turned to me and said:

"What's that the men were saying about a new machine you're making?"

"It's a new kind of saw he's messing about with," said Falkenberg. "But
it's too heavy to be any good."

I made no answer to that, but craftily preferred to be wronged. Was it not
the fate of all inventors to be so misjudged? Only wait: my time was not
yet come. There were moments when I could hardly keep from bursting out
with a revelation to the girls, of how I was really a man of good family,
led astray by desperation over an unhappy love affair, and now taking to