He stepped into the room rather hastily and was not very quiet about closing the door; he stood there now, scowling, his little, round, deep-set eyes wandered from one to another without really looking at anyone, and under his bushy, reddish mustache his mouth worked uneasily, snapping open and closed. It appeared he was in a rather defiant and irritable mood.

“I heard that you were in here,” he said gruffly. “If there are things to be discussed, you should have informed me.”

“We were just calling you,” the senator replied calmly. “Have a seat.”

But his eyes fixed on the white buttons on Christian’s shirt. His own mourning clothes were impeccable. His shirtfront, set off at the collar with a wide, black bow tie, stood out in sharp contrast to his black cloth coat and was fastened with black buttons rather than the gold studs he usually wore.

Christian noticed the look, and as he pulled a chair over and sat down, he ran his hand along his chest and said, “I know, I’m wearing white buttons. I haven’t got around to buying black ones yet – or, better, I’ve neglected to do it. There’s been many a time over the last few years when I’ve had to borrow five shillings for tooth powder and find my way to bed with a match. I don’t know if I’m the only one to blame for that. And black buttons are not the most important thing in the world. I have no great love of formalities. I’ve never set store by appearances.”

Gerda had been watching him as he spoke, and now laughed softly.

The senator remarked, “I don’t think you should try to hold yourself to that claim for very long.”

“You don’t? Well, perhaps you know better, Thomas. But I’m telling you that such things are of no importance to me. I have seen quite a bit of the world. And I have lived among far too many different kinds of people, with far too many different customs, for me to – And I’m a grown man in any case,” he suddenly shouted. “I’m forty-three years old. I am my own master, and I’m certainly entitled to tell anyone not to meddle in my affairs.”