pointed it out and in a way adopted it with his artist's authority.
"Just look how delicately it stands there; it is a pure Van der Neer."
"Oh, one sees beautiful light effects here," I remarked. "The other day we saw 'a real Poussin' out in Saxonian Switzerland."
Minna bit her lip. Stephensen, who could not have had any notion of the reference, felt that I mocked at artists' expressions.
"Yes, I quite believe it. One comes upon subjects at every turn. But, nous voilà, I live at Hotel Weber, and will take my leave. Perhaps I have already intruded."
We assured him, of course, to the contrary, and he disappeared with quick steps which made a crunching sound upon the gravel.
In silence we walked homewards. Near the post office there was a crowd of yellow carriages making their way home like bees to their hives, and every moment a horn-signal resounded.
I silently cursed all letter-writing and the whole postal system.
