Gram smiled sadly and shook his head: “No; I cannot tell you anything about my son. He was always good and obedient, and did well at school. He was not particularly clever, but he worked steadily and diligently. He was very reserved as a boy—and later, too, for that matter—with me, anyhow. You, I am sure, have more to tell me.” “About what?” “About Helge, of course. Tell me what he looks like to the girl who loves him. You are no ordinary girl either—you are an artist—and I believe you are intelligent and good. Will you not tell me how you came to like him—what it was that made you choose him?” “Well,” she said laughingly—“it is not so easy to say—we just got fond of each other.” He laughed too. “Well, it was a stupid question, I admit. One would say I had quite forgotten what it was to be young and in love, don’t you think?” “Don’t you think!—Helge says that so often, too. It was one of the things that made me like him. He was so young. I saw that he was very reserved, but gradually thawed a good deal.” “I can understand he would—to you. Tell me more! Oh, but don’t look so frightened. I don’t mean that you should tell me the whole story. Only tell me something about yourself and about Helge, about your work—and about Rome. I am an old man. I want to feel again what it is like to be an artist—and free. To work at the only thing you care for—to be young—and in love—and happy.” * * * * * He stayed for two hours. When he was ready to go and stood with his hat in his hand, he said in a low voice: “It is no use trying to hide from you the state of things at home. When we meet there, it would be better if we pretended not to have met before. I don’t wish Helge’s mother to know that I have made your acquaintance in this way—for your sake, so as not to expose you to any disagreeable, malicious words from her. It is enough for her to know that I like somebody—especially if it is a woman—to turn her against them. You think it strange, I am sure, but you understand, don’t you?” “Yes,” said Jenny quietly. “Good-bye. I am happy about you for Helge’s sake—believe me, Jenny.” She had written to Helge the night before about her visit to his home, and when she read her letter through, she realized how very cold and poor was the part about her meeting with his mother. When writing to him that night she told him about his father’s visit, but she tore the letter up and began another. It was so difficult to tell him about his father’s call and not to mention hers to Mrs. Gram. She did not like having secrets with one from the other. She felt humiliated on Helge’s behalf at having been initiated all at once in the misery of his home, and she ended by not saying a word about it in her letter—it would be easier to explain when he came. IV