"It was closed," said Miss Jahrman sulkily.
"We have met a fellow-countryman, and promised to show him the right tram," Miss Winge explained, introducing: "Mr. Gram—Mr. Heggen, artist, and Mr. Ahlin, sculptor."
"I don't know if you remember me, Mr. Heggen—my name is Gram; we met three years ago on the Mysusaeter."
"Oh yes—certainly. And so you are in Rome?"
Ahlin and Miss Jahrman had stood talking to one another in whispers. The girl came up to her friend and said: "I am going home, Jenny. I am not in the mood for Frascati tonight."
"But, my dear, you suggested it yourself."
"Well, not Frascati anyway—ugh! sit there and mope with thirty old Danish ladies of every possible age and sex."
"We can go somewhere else. But there is your tram coming, Mr. Gram."
"A thousand thanks for your help. Shall I see you again—at the Scandinavian club, perhaps?"
The tram stopped in front of them. Miss Winge said: "I don't know—perhaps you would like to come with us now; we were going to have a glass of wine somewhere, and hear some music."
"Thank you." Helge hesitated, looking round at the others a little embarrassed. "I should be very pleased, but"—and, turning with confidence to Miss Winge of the fair face and the kind voice, he said, with an awkward smile, "you all know one another—perhaps you would rather not have a stranger with you?"
"Indeed no," she said, smiling—"it would be very nice—and there—your tram's gone now. You know Heggen already, and now you know us. We'll see you get home all right, so if you are not tired, let us go."
"Tired, not a bit. I should love to come," said Helge eagerly.
