“Possibly—we have a little of everything here, but you must remember that Rome is a modern metropolis and that many people have night work. This is one of the few places open this time of night. But aren’t you hungry? I am going to have some black coffee.” “Do you always stay out so late?” Helge looked at his watch; it was four o’clock. “Oh no,” she laughed. “Only now and then. We watch the sun rise and then go and have breakfast. Miss Jahrman does not want to go home tonight.” Helge scarcely knew why he stayed on. They had some green liqueur and he felt drowsy after it, but the others laughed and chatted, mentioning people and places unfamiliar to him. “Don’t talk to me about Douglas—with his preachings—I have done with him. One day last June, when he and the Finn—you remember him, Lindberg?—and I were alone in the life class, the Finn and I went out to have some coffee. When we came back Douglas was sitting with the girl on his knee. We pretended not to see, but he never asked me to tea after that.” “Dear me,” said Jenny. “Was there any harm in that?” “In spring-time and in Paris,” said Heggen, with a smile. “Norman Douglas, I tell you, Cesca, was a splendid chap—you cannot deny that—and clever too. He showed me some beautiful things from the fortifications.” “Yes, and do you remember that one from Père Lachaise, with the purple rosaries to the left?” said Jenny. “Rather! It was a gem; and the one with the little girl at the piano?” “Yes, but think of the dreadful model,” said Miss Jahrman—“that fat, middle-aged, fair one, you know. And he always pretended to be so virtuous.” “He was,” said Heggen. “Pugh! And I was on the verge of falling in love with him just because of that.” “Oh! That of course puts it in another light.” “He proposed to me lots of times,” said Francesca pensively, “and I had decided to say yes, but fortunately I had not done it yet.” “If you had,” said Heggen, “you would never have seen him with that model on his knee.” The expression on Francesca’s face changed completely; for a second a shadow of melancholy passed over her soft features. “Nonsense! You are all alike. I don’t believe one of you. _Per Bacco!_” “You must not think that, Francesca,” said Ahlin, lifting his head for a moment from his hand. She smiled again. “Give me some more liqueur.” Toward dawn Helge walked beside Jenny Winge through dark, deserted streets. The three in front of them stopped; two half-grown boys were sitting on the stone steps of a house. Francesca and Jenny talked to them and gave them money. “Beggars?” asked Helge. “I don’t know—the big one said he was a paper-boy.” “I suppose the beggars in this country are merely humbugs?” “Most of them, but many have to sleep in the street even in winter. And many are cripples.”