Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Ball at Ekeby
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him—a shame greater than death. He would never
dance again; he never wanted to see them again,
those beautiful women. He knew it well—those
lovely eyes, those rosy cheeks, burned not for him.
Not for him was the fall of those light feet nor the
chime of that low laughter. Yes, dance with him,
flirt with him—that they would do, but none of
them would seriously have chosen to give him her
love.
The poet went away to the smoking-room, to
the old gentlemen, and took his place at one of the
card-tables. He happened to sit down near the
master of Björne, who was playing “Knack,” with an
occasional turn at “Polish Bank,” and had gathered
a whole pile of sixpences and farthings before him.
The stakes were already high, and Gösta drove
them higher. The green bank notes came out, and
the heaps of money increased before Melchior
Sinclaire. But before Gösta, too, a pile of silver and
paper gathered, and soon he was the only one who
could hold out against the great land proprietor of
Björne. Soon even Melchior Sinclaire’s pile retreated
over to Gösta.
“Gösta, my boy,” said his opponent, laughing,
when he had lost all he had in his purse and
pocketbook, “what are we to do now? I am cleaned out,
and I never play with borrowed money. I promised
my mother I never would.”
But he found a way—he gambled away his watch
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