All at once there was a sparkling as of a star somewhere on the hills behind the town—a windowpane had caught the first sunray after all—and the foliage turned a golden olive. A small bell began to peal down in the city.
Miss Jahrman came close to her friend and leaned sleepily against her:
“Il levar del sole.”
Helge looked up against the limpid blue sky; a sunray brushed the top of the spray and made the waterdrops scintillate in gold and azure.
“Bless you all, I am desperately sleepy,” said Francesca, yawning carelessly. “Ugh! it is freezing! I cannot understand how you can sit on that cold stone, Jenny. I want to go to bed at once—subito!”
“I am sleepy too.” Heggen yawned. “We must go home, but I am going to have a cup of hot milk at my dairy first. Are you coming?”
They went down the Spanish stairs. Helge looked at all the little green leaves that peeped out between the stone steps.
“Fancy anything growing where so many people walk up and down.”
“Everywhere, where there is some earth between the stones, something grows. You should have seen the roof below our house last spring. There is even a little fig-tree growing between the tiles, and Cesca is very concerned about it lest it should not stand the winter, and wonders where it will get nourishment when it grows bigger. She has made a sketch of it.”
“Your friend is a painter, too, I understand?”
“Yes—she is very talented.”
“I remember seeing a picture of yours at the autumn exhibition at home,” said Helge. “Roses in a copper bowl.”
“I painted it here last spring, but I am not altogether pleased with it now. I was in Paris for two months in the summer, and I think I learnt a lot in that time. But I sold it for three hundred kroner—the price I had marked it for. There are some things in it that are good.”
“You are a modern painter—I suppose you all are?”
Jenny smiled slightly, but did not answer.
The others waited at the bottom of the stairs. Jenny shook hands with the men and said good morning.
“What do you mean by that?” said Heggen. “You are not really going off to work now?”
“Yes; that is what I mean.”
“You are marvellous!”
“Oh, don’t, Jenny, come home!” Francesca shivered.
“Why shouldn’t I work? I am not a bit tired. Mr. Gram, hadn’t you better take a cab home from here?”
“I suppose so. Is the post office open now? I know it is not far from the Piazza di Spagna.”
“I am going past it—you can come with me.” She nodded a last time to the others, who began to walk homeward. Francesca hung limp on Ahlin’s arm, overcome with sleep.
III
“Well, did you get a letter?” said Jenny Winge when he returned to the entrance hall of the post office, where she had been waiting for him. “Now I will show you which tram to take.”
“Thank you, it is very kind of you.”
The piazza lay white in the sunshine; the morning air was crisp and clear. Carts and people from the side streets were hurrying past.
“You know, Miss Winge, I don’t think I will go home. I am as wide awake as I can be, and I should like to go for a walk. Would you think me intruding if I asked to be allowed to accompany you a little bit of the way?”
“Dear me, no. But will you be able to find the way to your hotel?”
“Oh, I think I can manage it in broad daylight.”
“You will find cabs now everywhere.”
They came out into the Corso, and she told him the names of the palaces. She was always a step or two ahead of him, for she moved with ease between the many people who had already come out on the pavements.
“Do you like vermouth?” she asked. “I am going in here to have one.”
She drank it all in one gulp, standing at the marble counter of the bar. He did not like the bittersweet drink, which was new to him, but he thought it fun to look in at a bar on their way.
Jenny turned into narrow streets where the air was raw and damp, the sun reaching only the top part of the houses. Helge noticed everything with great interest: the blue carts behind mules with brass-studded harness and red tassels, the bareheaded women and dark-hued children, the small, cheap shops and the display of vegetables in the porches. In one place a man was making doughnuts on a stove. Jenny bought some and offered him, but he refused politely. What a queer girl, he thought. She ate and seemed to enjoy them, while he felt sick at the mere thought of those greasy balls between his teeth on top of the various drinks in the night, and the taste of vermouth still in his mouth. Besides, the old man was very dirty.
Side by side with poor, decrepit houses, where greyish wash hung out to dry between the broken ribs of the venetian blinds, stood massive stone palaces with lattice windows and protruding cornices. Once Jenny had to take him by the arm—a scarlet automobile came hooting out of a gate in baroque style, turned with difficulty, and came speeding up the narrow street, where the gutters were full of cabbage leaves and other refuse.
He enjoyed it all—it was so strange and southern. Year after year his fantastic dreams had been destroyed by everyday petty reality,
