"Your friend is a painter, too, I understand?"
"Yes—she is very talented."
"I remember seeing a picture of yours at the autumn exhibition at home," said Helge. "Roses in a copper bowl."
"I painted it here last spring, but I am not altogether pleased with it now. I was in Paris for two months in the summer, and I think I learnt a lot in that time. But I sold it for three hundred kroner—the price I had marked it for. There are some things in it that are good."
"You are a modern painter—I suppose you all are?"
Jenny smiled slightly, but did not answer.
The others waited at the bottom of the stairs. Jenny shook hands with the men and said good morning.
"What do you mean by that?" said Heggen. "You are not really going off to work now?"
"Yes; that is what I mean."
"You are marvellous!"
"Oh, don't, Jenny, come home!" Francesca shivered.
"Why shouldn't I work? I am not a bit tired. Mr. Gram, hadn't you better take a cab home from here?"
"I suppose so. Is the post office open now? I know it is not far from the Piazza di Spagna."
"I am going past it—you can come with me." She nodded a last time to the others, who began to walk homeward. Francesca hung limp on Ahlin's arm, overcome with sleep.
Well, did you get a letter?" said Jenny Winge when he returned to the entrance hall of the post office, where she had been waiting for him. "Now I will show you which tram to take."
"Thank you, it is very kind of you."
The piazza lay white in the sunshine; the morning air was
