"Well, and didn't you?" he said, sitting down, too, but a little way off so that he could get her effect better.
"Yes, do sit down. Then I shan't be so dreadfully afraid you're going."
"Why, but I've only just found you."
"But last time you disappeared almost at once into the fog, and you'd only just found me then," she said, her hands clasped round her knees, her face the face of the entirely happy.
"After all I seem to have made some progress in seven years," he said. "I apparently couldn't see then."
"No, it was me. I was very invisible—"
"Invisible?"
"Oh, moth-eaten, dilapidated, dun-coloured. And I'd been crying."
"You? Look here, nobody with your kind of colouring should ever cry. It's a sin. It would be most distressing, seriously, if you were ever less white than you are at this moment."
"See how nice it is not to be a painter," said Ingeborg. "I don't mind a bit if you're white or not so long as it's you."