“I don’t understand much about it, but I think they are beautiful. He says himself that they are no good, but it is only a way of talking, I think,” she said, with a short, harsh laugh. “My husband is pretty easy-going, you see, and painting pictures could not pay our way when we had married and had children, so he had to do something useful besides. But he was too lazy to paint as well, and that is why he pretended that he had no talent. To me his pictures are much prettier than all the modern paintings, but I suppose you think differently?” “Your husband’s pictures are very pretty, especially your portrait, which I think beautiful.” “Do you?—but it is not very like me, and certainly not flattering.” She laughed again, the same slightly bitter laugh. “I think he painted much better before he began to imitate those who were modern then—Thaulow and Krogh and others.” Jenny sipped her wine in silence while Mrs. Gram went on talking. “I should like to ask you to stay to lunch, Miss Winge, but I have to do everything myself, you see, and we were not prepared for your coming. I am sorry, but I hope you will come another time.” Jenny understood that Mrs. Gram wished to get rid of her—it was quite natural, as she was without a servant and had to get the lunch—so she took her leave. On the stairs she met Mr. Gram—she thought so at least. As she passed him she had the impression that he looked very young and that his eyes were very blue. III Two days later, in the afternoon, when Jenny was painting in her studio, Helge’s father called. As he stood with his hat in his hand, she saw that his hair was grey—so grey that she could not make out what the original colour had been, but he still looked young. He was thin, and had a slight stoop—not the stoop of an old man, but rather of one too slender for his height. His eyes too were young, though sad and tired and so big and blue that they gave one a curious impression of being wide open, surprised, and at the same time suspicious. “I was very anxious to meet you, Jenny Winge,” he said, “as you can understand for yourself. No; don’t take off your overall, and tell me if I disturb you.” “Not in the least,” said Jenny warmly. She liked his smile and his voice. She threw her overall on a chair: “The light is almost gone already. It was very good of you to come and see me.” “It is a very long time since I was in a studio,” said Gram, sitting down on the sofa. “Don’t you ever see any of the other painters—your contemporaries?” asked Jenny. “No, never,” he answered curtly. “But”—Jenny bethought herself—“how did you find your way up here? Did you ask them at home for my address, or at the artists’ club?” Gram laughed.