“Never a word—you could have knocked me down with a feather when I got her letter. Only a few words: ‘Tomorrow I am going to marry Ahlin.’ I had not the least suspicion of it.” “Neither had we. They were very much together, of course, but that they were going to marry even Heggen did not know until she asked him to give her away.” “Have you seen them since?” “No. They went to Rocca di Papa the same day, and they were still there when I left Rome.” Jenny sat a while thinking. “I thought she was all taken up with her work,” she said. “Heggen told me she had finished the big picture of the gate, and that it was very good. She had begun several small ones too, but then she got married all of a sudden. I don’t know if they had been properly engaged even. And what about you, Jenny—you wrote you had begun a new picture?” Jenny led him to the easel. The big canvas showed a street with a row of houses—offices and factories—in grey-green and brick-red colouring. To the right were some workshops; behind them rose the walls of some big houses against a rich blue sky, with a few departing rain clouds, leaden grey in colour, but shining white where the sun came through. There was a strong light on the shops and the wall, and on the young foliage of some trees in a yard. A few men, some wagons and fruit barrows stood about in the street. “I don’t know much about it, but is it not very good? I think it is fine—it is beautiful.” “When I was wandering about waiting for my own boy—after walking here so lonely and sad many a spring before—and saw the maples and the chestnuts opening out their tender leaves against the smoky houses and red walls under a golden spring sky, I wanted to paint it.” “Where did you get the view?” “Stenersgaten. You see, your father spoke about a picture of you as a boy, which he kept in his office. I went down there to have a look at it, and then I saw this view from his office window. They let me stand in the box factory next door to paint it, but I had to change it a bit—compose a little.” “You have been a good deal with father, I see,” said Helge after a pause. “I suppose he is very interested in your picture?” “Yes. He often came over to look while I was working on it, and gave me some good advice. He knows a lot about painting, of course.” “Do you think father had any talent?” asked Helge. “Oh yes, I believe so. The pictures hanging in your home are not particularly good, but he let me see some studies he keeps in his office, and I think they show a refined and quite original talent. He would never have been a great artist; he is too susceptible to influence, but I think it is because of his readiness to appreciate and love the good work of others. He has a great understanding and love of art.” “Poor father!” said Helge. “Yes”—Jenny nestled closer to him—“your father is perhaps more to be pitied than you or I understand.” They kissed—and forgot to speak any more of Gert Gram.