"And I see your name in the papers at least once a week," she said. "Oh, the glory!" "And Berlin's got two of your pictures. Bought for the nation." "Yes, it has. And haggled till it got them a dead bargain." "And you've painted my sister." "What?" he said quickly, staring at her again. "Why, of course. That's it. That's who you remind me of. The amazing Judith." "Are you such friends?" she asked, surprised. "Oh, well, then, the wife of the Master of Ananias. Let us give her her honours. She's the most entirely beautiful woman I've seen. But--" "But what?" "Oh, well. I did a very good portrait of her. The old boy didn't like it." "What old boy?" "The Master. He tried to stop my showing it. And so did the other old boy." "What other old boy?" "The Bishop." "But if it was so good?" "It was. It was exact. It was the living woman. It was a portrait of sheer, exquisite flesh." "Well, then," said Ingeborg. "Oh, but you know bishops--" He shrugged his shoulders. "Italy's got it now. It's at Venice. The State bought it. You must go and see it next time you're there." "I will," she laughed, "the very next time." And her laugh was the laugh of joyful amusement itself. Ingram was now forty three or four, and leaner than ever. His high shoulders were narrow, his thin neck came a long way out of his collar at the back and was partly hidden in front by his short red beard. His hair, darker than his beard, was plastered down neatly. He had very light, piercing eyes, and a nose that Ingeborg liked. She liked everything. She liked his tweed clothes, and his big thin hands--the wonderful hands that did the wonderful pictures--and his long thin nimble legs. She liked the way he fidgeted, and the quickness of his movements. And she glowed with pride to think she was sitting with a man who was mentioned in the papers at least once a week and whose pictures were bought by States, and she glowed with happiness because he did not this time seem anxious to go back to the Glambecks' at once; but most of all she glowed with the heavenliness, the absolute heavenliness of being talked to. "And you're her sister," he said, staring at her. "Now that really is astonishing." "But everybody can't be beautiful." "A sister of hers here, tucked away in this desert. It _is_ a desert, you know. I've come to it because I wanted a desert--one does sometimes after too much of the opposite. But I go away again, and you live in it. What have you been doing all these years, since I was here last?" "Oh, I've--been busy." "But not here? Not all the time here?" "Yes, all of it." "What, not away at all?" "I went to Zoppot once." "Zoppot? Where's Zoppot? I never heard of Zoppot. I don't believe Zoppot's any good. Do you mean to say you've not been to a town, to a place where people say things and hear things and rub themselves alive against each other, since last I was here?" "Well, but pastors' wives don't rub."