“It is very kind of you; I suppose it is rather difficult to find one’s way about in Rome, is it not?” he said, by way of conversation—“especially when it is dark.”
“Oh no, you will soon get into it.”
“I only arrived here today. I came from Florence this morning by train.” The smaller one said something in an undertone in Italian. The tall one asked: “Was it very cold in Florence?”
“Yes, bitterly cold. It is milder here, is it not? I wrote my mother anyway yesterday to send my winter coat.”
“Well, it is cold enough here too sometimes. Did you like Florence? How long were you there?”
“A fortnight. I think I shall like Rome better than Florence.”
The other young girl smiled—she had been muttering to herself in Italian all the time—but the tall one went on in her pleasant, quiet voice:
“I don’t believe there is any town one could love as much as Rome.”
“Is your friend Italian?” asked Helge.
“No; Miss Jahrman is Norwegian. We speak Italian because I want to learn, and she is very good at it. My name is Winge,” she added. “That is the Cancellaria.” She pointed towards a big, dark palace.