“Do you hear, Ahlin? And you wanted me to have the malachite necklace. Heggen’s scarf-pin is malachite—take it off, Gunnar—and Jenny’s beads are _cristallo rosso_, not _rossa_—red rock crystals, you know.” She handed him the scarf-pin and the necklace. The beads were warm from contact with the young girl’s neck. He looked at them a while; in every bead there were small flaws, as it were, which absorbed the light. “You ought really to wear corals, Miss Jahrman. You would look exactly like a Roman _contadina_ yourself.” “You don’t say so!” She smiled, pleased. “Do you hear, you others?” “You have an Italian name, too,” said Helge eagerly. “No. I was named after my grandmother, but the Italian family I lived with last year could not pronounce my ugly name, and since then I have stuck to the Italian version of it.” “Francesca,” said Ahlin, in a whisper. “I shall always think of you as Francesca—_signorina Francesca_.” “Why not Miss Jahrman? Unfortunately we cannot speak Italian together, since you don’t know the language.” She turned to the others. “Jenny, Gunnar—I am going to buy the corals tomorrow.” “Yes; I think I heard you say so,” said Heggen. “And I will _not_ pay more than ninety.” “You always have to bargain here,” said Helge, as one who knows. “I went into a shop this afternoon near St. Pietro and bought this thing for my mother. They asked seven lire, but I got it for four. Don’t you think it was cheap?” He put the thing on the table. Francesca looked at it with contempt. “It costs two fifty in the market. I took a pair of them to each of the maids at home last year.” “The man said it was old,” retorted Helge. “They always do, when they see that people don’t understand, and don’t know the language.” “You don’t think it is pretty?” said Helge, downcast, and wrapped the pink tissue paper round his treasure. “Don’t you think I can give it to my mother?” “I think it is hideous,” said Francesca, “but, of course, I don’t know your mother’s taste.” “What on earth shall I do with it, then?” sighed Helge. “Give it to your mother,” said Jenny. “She will be pleased that you have remembered her. Besides, people at home like those things. We who live out here see so much that we become more critical.” Francesca reached her hand for Ahlin’s cigarette-case, but he did not want to let her have it; they whispered together eagerly, then she flung it away, calling: “Giuseppe!” Helge understood that she ordered the man to bring her some cigarettes. Ahlin got up suddenly: “My dear Miss Jahrman—I meant only to ... you know it is not good for you to smoke so much.” Francesca rose. She had tears in her eyes. “Never mind. I want to go home.” “Miss Jahrman—Cesca.” Ahlin stood holding her cloak and begged her quietly not to go. She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. “Yes; I want to go home—you can see for yourself that I am quite impossible tonight. I want to go home alone. No, Jenny, you must not come with me.”