“No; Miss Jahrman is Norwegian. We speak Italian because I want to learn, and she is very good at it. My name is Winge,” she added. “That is the Cancellaria.” She pointed towards a big, dark palace. “Is the courtyard as fine as it is reported to be?” “Yes; it is very fine. I will show you which car.” While they stood waiting two men came across the street. “Hullo, you here!” exclaimed one of them. “Good evening,” said the other. “What luck! We can go together. Have you been to look at the corals?” “It was closed,” said Miss Jahrman sulkily. “We have met a fellow-countryman, and promised to show him the right tram,” Miss Winge explained, introducing: “Mr. Gram—Mr. Heggen, artist, and Mr. Ahlin, sculptor.” “I don’t know if you remember me, Mr. Heggen—my name is Gram; we met three years ago on the Mysusaeter.” “Oh yes—certainly. And so you are in Rome?” Ahlin and Miss Jahrman had stood talking to one another in whispers. The girl came up to her friend and said: “I am going home, Jenny. I am not in the mood for Frascati tonight.” “But, my dear, you suggested it yourself.” “Well, not Frascati anyway—ugh! sit there and mope with thirty old Danish ladies of every possible age and sex.” “We can go somewhere else. But there is your tram coming, Mr. Gram.” “A thousand thanks for your help. Shall I see you again—at the Scandinavian club, perhaps?” The tram stopped in front of them. Miss Winge said: “I don’t know—perhaps you would like to come with us now; we were going to have a glass of wine somewhere, and hear some music.” “Thank you.” Helge hesitated, looking round at the others a little embarrassed. “I should be very pleased, but”—and, turning with confidence to Miss Winge of the fair face and the kind voice, he said, with an awkward smile, “you all know one another—perhaps you would rather not have a stranger with you?” “Indeed no,” she said, smiling—“it would be very nice—and there—your tram’s gone now. You know Heggen already, and now you know us. We’ll see you get home all right, so if you are not tired, let us go.” “Tired, not a bit. I should love to come,” said Helge eagerly. The other three began to propose different cafés. Helge knew none of the names; his father had not mentioned them. Miss Jahrman rejected them all. “Very well, then, let us go down to St. Agostino; you know the one, Gunnar, where they give you that first-rate claret,” and Jenny began to walk on, accompanied by Heggen. “There is no music,” retorted Miss Jahrman. “Oh yes, the man with a squint and the other fellow are there almost every night. Don’t let us waste time.” Helge followed with Miss Jahrman and the Swedish sculptor. “Have you been long in Rome, Mr. Gram?” “No, I came this morning from Florence.”