“New Year’s night last year was quite different,” said Francesca. “I went to Gesu. They had the Te Deum; it was very beautiful. I knelt beside an old peasant from the Campagna and a young girl; she looked ill—but oh, so pretty! Everybody sang; the old man knew the whole Te Deum by heart. It was very solemn.” As they made their way slowly down the crowded aisle, the Ave Maria sounded through the church. “Ave Maria.” Francesca sniffed. “Can’t you hear how indifferent she is to what she sings—exactly like a gramophone? I cannot bear to hear that kind of music ill-treated.” “Ave Maria,” said a Dane walking beside her—“I remember how beautifully it was sung by a young Norwegian lady—a Miss Eck.” “Berit Eck. Do you know her, Mr. Hjerrild?” “She was in Copenhagen two years ago studying under Ellen Beck. I knew her quite well. Do you know her?” “My sister knew her,” said Francesca. “I think you met my sister Borghild in Berlin. Do you like Miss Eck—or Mrs. Hermann as she is now?” “She was a very nice girl—and good-looking. Extraordinarily gifted, too, I think.” Francesca and Hjerrild lagged behind. Heggen, Ahlin, and Gram were to accompany the ladies home and have supper. Francesca had got a big parcel from home, and the table was laid with Norwegian Christmas fare, decorated with daisies from the Campagna and candles in seven-branched candlesticks. Francesca came in last and brought the Dane with her. “Wasn’t it nice, Jenny, of Mr. Hjerrild to come too?” There were butter and cheese, cold game and brawn and ham on the table, as well as drinks for the men. Francesca sat by Hjerrild, and when the conversation became more animated and general she turned to speak to him. “Do you know the pianist, Mr. Hermann, who married Miss Eck?” “Yes; I know him very well. I lived at the same boarding-house with him in Copenhagen, and I saw him in Berlin on my way here.” “What do you think of him?” “He is a handsome fellow, tremendously talented. He gave me some of his latest compositions—very original, I call them. I like him very much.” “Have you got them here? May I have a look at them? I should like to try them on the piano at the club. I knew him years ago,” said Francesca. “Oh yes. I remember now, he has a photo of you. He would not say who it was.” Heggen’s attention was drawn to their conversation. “Yes,” said Francesca inaudibly; “I think I gave him a photo once.” “All the same, he is too much of a bully for me,” said Hjerrild, “unpardonably rude, but perhaps that is why he is irresistible to women. Rather too plebeian for my taste.” “That was exactly what ...”—she searched for the right words—“what I admired in him was that he had made his way from the bottom of the ladder to where he now stands—such a struggle must necessarily make one brutal, it seems to me. Don’t you think that a great deal—almost anything—can be excused from that point of view?”