Helge Gram sat down quietly at the end of the table and listened to the others talking about a friend of theirs who had been ill. An old Italian, with a dirty white apron covering his broad waistcoat, came up to ask what they required. “Red or white, sweet or dry, what do you like, Gram?” said Heggen, turning to him. “Mr. Gram must have half a litre of my claret,” said Jenny Winge. “It is one of the best things you can have in Rome, and that is no small praise, you know.” The sculptor pushed his cigarette-case over to the ladies. Miss Jahrman took one and lighted it. “No, Cesca—don’t!” begged Miss Winge. “Yes,” said Miss Jahrman. “I shan’t be any better if I don’t smoke, and I am cross tonight.” “Why are you cross?” asked Ahlin. “Because I did not get those corals.” “Were you going to wear them tonight?” asked Heggen. “No, but I had made up my mind to have them.” “I see,” said Heggen, laughing, “and tomorrow you will decide to have the malachite necklace.” “No, I won’t, but it is awfully annoying. Jenny and I rushed down on purpose because of those wretched corals.” “But you had the good luck to meet us, otherwise you would have been obliged to go to Frascati, to which you seem to have taken a sudden dislike.” “I would not have gone to Frascati, you may be sure of that, Gunnar, and it would have been much better for me, because now that you have made me come I want to smoke and drink and be out the whole night.” “I was under the impression that you had suggested it yourself.” “I think the malachite necklace was very fine,” said Ahlin, by way of interrupting—“and very cheap.” “Yes, but in Florence malachite is much cheaper still. This thing cost forty-seven lire. In Florence, where Jenny bought her _cristallo rosso_, I could have got one for thirty-five. Jenny gave only eighteen for hers. But I will make him give me the corals for ninety lire.” “I don’t quite understand your economy,” said Heggen. “I don’t want to talk about it any more,” said Miss Jahrman. “I am sick of all this talk—and tomorrow I am going to buy the corals.” “But isn’t ninety lire an awful price for corals?” Heggen risked the question. “They are not ordinary corals, you know,” Miss Jahrman deigned to answer. “They are _contadina_ corals, a fat chain with a gold clasp and heavy drops—like that.” “_Contadina_—is that a special kind of coral?” asked Helge. “No. It is what the _contadinas_ wear.” “But I don’t know what a _contadina_ is, you see.” “A peasant girl. Have you not seen those big, dark red, polished corals they wear? Mine are exactly the colour of raw beef, and the bead in the middle is as big as that”—and she formed a ring with her thumb and forefinger the size of an egg. “How beautiful they must be,” said Helge, pleased to get hold of the thread of conversation. “I don’t know what malachite is, or _cristallo rossa_, but I am sure that corals like those would suit you better than anything.”