“Was that the stuff like curds and whey?” asked Blanche, who was full of eager interest in everything. “Yes: it is sour cream with bread crumbs grated over it. We always have a plateful each at dinner, it is quite one of our customs. But everything here is simple of course, not grand as with you; we do not keep a great number of servants, or dine late, or dress for the evening—here there is nothing”—she hesitated for a word, then in her pretty foreign English added, “nothing ceremonious.” “That is just the charm of it all,” said Blanche, in her sweet gracious way. “It is all so real and simple and fresh, and I think it was delightful of you to know how much best we should like to have a glimpse of your real home life instead of a stupid party. Now mamma cares for nothing but just to make a great show, it doesn’t matter whether the visitors really like it or not.” Sigrid felt a momentary pang of doubt; she had fallen in love with Blanche Morgan the moment she saw her, but it somehow hurt her to hear the English girl criticise her own mother. To Sigrid’s loyal nature there was something out of tune in that last remark. “Perhaps you and your cousin would like to see over the house,” she said, by way of making a diversion. “Though I must tell you that we are considered here in Bergen to be rather English in some points. That is because of my father’s business connection with England, I suppose. Here, you see, in his study he has a real English fireplace; we all like it much better than the stoves, and some day I should like to have them in the other rooms as well.” “But there is one thing very un-English,” said Blanche. “There are no passages; instead, I see, all your rooms open out of each other. Such numbers of lovely plants, too, in every direction; we are not so artistic, we stand them all in prim rows in a conservatory. This, too, is quite new to me. What a good idea!” And she went up to examine a prettily worked sling fastened to the wall, and made to hold newspapers. She was too polite, of course, to say what really struck her—that the whole house seemed curiously simple and bare, and that she had imagined that one of the leading merchants of Bergen would live in greater style. As a matter of fact, you might, as Cyril expressed it, have bought the whole place for an old song, and though there was an air of comfort and good taste about the rooms and a certain indescribable charm, they were evidently destined for use and not for show, and with the exception of some fine old Norwegian silver and a few good pictures Herr Falck did not possess a single thing of value. Contrasted with the huge and elaborately furnished house in Lancaster Gate with its lavishly strewn knick-knacks, its profusion of all the beautiful things that money could buy, the Norwegian villa seemed poor indeed, yet there was something about it which took Blanche’s fancy.