“There is not the least truth in it,” said Jenny stiffly. “You have a good time, you artists.” Mrs. Gram sighed. “I cannot see how Helge could work at all—it seems to me he never wrote about anything else but going here and there in the Campagna with you.” “Oh,” said Jenny. It was very painful to hear Mrs. Gram speak of things out there. “I think Mr. Gram worked very hard, and one must have a day off now and again.” “Possibly—but we housewives must get along without it. Wait till you get married, Miss Winge. Everybody wants holidays, it seems to me. I have a niece who has just become a school teacher—she was to study medicine, but she was not strong enough, so had to give it up and begin at the seminary instead. She is always having a day off, it seems to me, and I tell her there is no danger of her being overworked.” Mrs. Gram left the room, and Jenny rose to have a look at the pictures. Above the sofa was a large view of the Campagna; one could easily see that Gram had studied in Copenhagen. The drawing was good and thorough, but the colouring thin and dry. The background with two Italian women in national dress and the miniature plants round the tumbled pillar was poor. The model study of a young girl below was better. She had to smile—no wonder Helge had found some difficulty in accepting Rome as it was, and had been disappointed at first, after having grown up with all this Italian romance on the walls at home. There were several well-drawn small landscapes from Italy, with ruins and national costumes, and some copies—Correggio’s “Danaë” and Guido Reni’s “Aurora”—which were not good, and other copies of baroque pictures which she did not know, but a study of a priest was good. There was also a large light green summer landscape—an experiment in impressionism—but thin and plain as far as colouring went. The one over the piano was better, the sun above the ridge and the air quite good. A portrait of Mrs. Gram hung beside it—very good indeed—better than any of the other things. The figure and the hands were perfectly drawn, the bright red dress, draped at the sides, the openwork black mittens, and the high black hat with a red wing were very effective; the pale face with the dark eyes below the curls on her forehead was good, but unfortunately she stood as glued on to the grey-blue background. The portrait of a child drew her attention—near the frame was written “Bamsey, four years old.” Was that pretty little frowning child in a white shirt Helge? How good he was! Mrs. Gram returned with some cake and wine on a tray. Jenny muttered something about giving trouble: “I have been looking at your husband’s paintings.”