“You have been a good deal with father, I see,” said Helge after a pause. “I suppose he is very interested in your picture?”
“Yes. He often came over to look while I was working on it, and gave me some good advice. He knows a lot about painting, of course.”
“Do you think father had any talent?” asked Helge.
“Oh yes, I believe so. The pictures hanging in your home are not particularly good, but he let me see some studies he keeps in his office, and I think they show a refined and quite original talent. He would never have been a great artist; he is too susceptible to influence, but I think it is because of his readiness to appreciate and love the good work of others. He has a great understanding and love of art.”
“Poor father!” said Helge.
“Yes”—Jenny nestled closer to him—“your father is perhaps more to be pitied than you or I understand.”
They kissed—and forgot to speak any more of Gert Gram.
“Your people don’t know about it yet?” Helge asked.
“No,” said Jenny.
“At first, when I was sending all my letters to your home address, did your mother never ask who wrote to you like that every day?”