“I hope you will excuse me,” he muttered, colouring, and, angrily conscious of it, blushed still deeper. “I only arrived from Florence today, and have lost my way in these winding streets. I thought you were Norwegian, or at any rate Scandinavian, and I cannot manage the Italian language. Would you be kind enough to tell me where to find a car? My name is Gram,” he added, raising his hat again. “Where do you live?” asked the taller girl. “At a place called the Albergo Torino, close to the station,” he explained. “He should take the Trastevere tram at San Carlo ai Catenari,” said the other. “No; better take a No. 1 at the new Corso.” “But those cars don’t go to the Termini,” answered the little one. “Yes, they do. Those that have San Pietro, _stazione_ Termini, written on them,” she explained to Helge. “Oh, that one! It runs past Capo le Case and Ludovisi and an awful long way about first—it will take an hour at least to the station with that one.” “No, dear; it goes direct—straight along Via Nazionale.” “It does not,” insisted the other; “it goes to the Lateran first.” The taller girl turned to Helge: “The first turning right will take you into a sort of market. From there you go along the Cancellaria on your left to the new Corso. If I remember rightly, the tram stops at the Cancellaria—somewhere near it anyway—you will see the sign. But be sure to take the tram marked San Pietro, _stazione_ Termini, No. 1.” Helge stood somewhat crestfallen, listening to the foreign names which the girls used with such easy familiarity, and, shaking his head, said: “I am afraid I shall never be able to find it—perhaps I had better walk till I find a cab.” “We might go with you to the stop,” said the tall one. The little one whispered peevishly something in Italian, but the other answered her decisively. Helge felt still more confused at these asides, which he did not understand. “Thank you, but please do not trouble. I am sure to find my way home somehow or other.” “It is no trouble,” said the tall one, starting to walk; “it is on our way.” “It is very kind of you; I suppose it is rather difficult to find one’s way about in Rome, is it not?” he said, by way of conversation—“especially when it is dark.” “Oh no, you will soon get into it.” “I only arrived here today. I came from Florence this morning by train.” The smaller one said something in an undertone in Italian. The tall one asked: “Was it very cold in Florence?” “Yes, bitterly cold. It is milder here, is it not? I wrote my mother anyway yesterday to send my winter coat.” “Well, it is cold enough here too sometimes. Did you like Florence? How long were you there?” “A fortnight. I think I shall like Rome better than Florence.” The other young girl smiled—she had been muttering to herself in Italian all the time—but the tall one went on in her pleasant, quiet voice: “I don’t believe there is _any_ town one could love as much as Rome.” “Is your friend Italian?” asked Helge.