"I think you know," said Ingram, suiting himself to her, "you should be able to walk better than that."
"Yes," said Ingeborg.
"I suppose that's the danger of places like Kökensee—one lets oneself get slack."
"Yes," said Ingeborg.
"You mustn't, you know. Imagine losing one's lines. Just think of the horrible indefinite lines of a fat woman."
"Yes," said Ingeborg. "Do you paint much?" she asked, unable to endure this turn of the conversation.
He looked at her and laughed. "A good deal," he said. Then he added, "I'm Ingram."
"Is that your name? Mine's Dremmel."
"Edward Ingram," he said, looking at her. It was inconceivable she should not know.
"Ingeborg Dremmel," she said, as though it were a game.