“Pooh!” said the girl. “It is so dull, most of it. Not exciting, like yours.”
She opened another door.
“Here is your bedroom. It used to belong to my brother Heinrich.”
“Won’t he want it?” asked Brand.
He could have bitten his tongue out for that question when the girl answered it.
“He was killed in France.”
A sudden sadness took possession of her eyes and Brand said, “I’m sorry.”
“Yes. I was sorry, too, and wept for weeks. He was a nice boy, so jolly, as you say. He would have been an artist if he had lived. All those charcoal sketches are by him.”
She pointed to the drawing of a young man’s head over the dressing-table.