the contrary, some insisted, she was gentle but silly. "Silly!" several explained, "she can sparkle with original thoughts, but this habit is not aways agreeable to every one; she has a very critical eye for the faults of others." "Anyhow, she's interesting," said an elderly man. "But she's without interests," remarked a young journalist. A lady, however, who lived in the flat above the Stephensens stated that she was at any rate a passionate lover of music, as she usually played half the day. This astonished everybody, as in society she had never been known to touch the piano, and she was rarely seen at concerts. Her appearance was almost unanimously admired.
I had been nearly a fortnight in Copenhagen, and still had not caught a glimpse of her. Should I simply go and call upon her? I considered this question for the hundredth and which time God only knows, when rather late one evening I entered Café à Porta. In the outer room there were only a few visitors. Looking round in order to choose a place, I heard from a side-room a voice that could not be mistaken: it was Stephensen's, only a degree more lispingly sweet than formerly. I placed myself as quietly as possible where I could best overlook the adjoining room.
The only one I knew of the lively party within was Minna, whom I saw almost in profile perdu, hardly half a dozen paces from me. Stephensen apparently was sitting on a corner sofa, of which I could only see a little of the farthest end. A smiling blonde leaned her arm upon it, and evidently conversed with him; her face had a certain vulgar beauty; every minute she laid her head on one side, so that the reddish hair touched her half-bare shoulder, which peeped through a broad insertion of black lace. The laughing glances that she constantly flashed towards
