“No doubt about that! She has a very strong character; she has always been wanting to paint, but she had to go on teaching, teaching! She has had a hard time, poor Jenny. You would not believe it when you see her now. She is so strong, she never gives in. When I first met her at the art school I thought she was very reserved, almost hard—armour-plated, Gunnar called it. She was very retiring; I did not know her really till we came out here. Her mother is a widow for the second time—she is a Mrs. Berner—and there are three more children. They had only three small rooms, imagine, and Jenny had to live in a tiny servant’s room, work and study to complete her education, besides helping her mother in the house and with money as well. They could not afford a servant. She knew nobody and had no friends. She shuts herself up, as it were, when things go badly, and does not want to complain, but when she is in luck she opens her arms to every one that needs comfort and support.” Francesca’s cheeks were burning. She looked at him with her big eyes. “All the bad luck I have had has been my own doing. I am a bit hysterical, and give way to all sorts of moods. Jenny gives me a talking-to; she says that if anything irreparable happens to you it is always your own fault, and if you cannot train your will to master your moods and impulses and so on, and have not complete control of yourself, you might as well commit suicide at once.” Helge smiled at her. “Jenny says,” and “Gunnar says,” and “I had a friend who used to say.” How young and trusting she seemed! “Don’t you think it possible that Miss Winge’s principles might not apply to you? You are so different, you two. No two people have the same views on life itself even.” “No,” she said quietly. “But I am so fond of Jenny. I need her so.” They came to the bridge. Francesca bent over the railing. Farther up the river there was a factory; its tall chimney stood reflected in the swift yellow water. Behind the undulating plain, far away, lay the Sabine mountains, mud-grey and bare, and behind them, farther still, rose snowclad peaks. “Jenny has painted this with strong evening light on it. The factory and the chimney are quite red. It was on a hot day, when you cannot see the mountains for mist, but only a few white snow-peaks in the heavy metallic blue of the sky, and the clouds above the snow. It is very pretty. I must ask her to show it to you.” “Shall we have some wine here?” he asked. “It’ll soon be getting cold, but we might sit down a little.” She led the way across the round piazza behind the bridge. She chose an _osteria_ with a small garden. Behind a shed with chairs and tables stood a seat under some bare elms. At the back of the garden was a meadow, and on the opposite side of the river the slope appeared dark against the limpid sky. Francesca broke a twig from an elder that grew by the fence; it had small green shoots, with tops blackened by the cold.