“You forgot to take your umbrella, dear—as usual. You were lucky to escape a shower. Men want such a lot of looking after, you know,” she said, turning to Miss Winge.
“You manage it very well,” said Gram. His voice and manners were always painfully polite when he spoke to his wife.
“You are sitting in here too, I see,” she said to Helge and Jenny.
“I have noticed that the study is the nicest room in every house,” said Jenny. “It was in our house, when my father was alive. I suppose it is because they are made to work in it.”
“The kitchen ought in that case to be the very nicest room in every house,” said Mrs. Gram. “Where do you think more work is done, Gert—in your room or mine?—for I suppose the kitchen is my study.”
“Undoubtedly more useful work is done in your room.”
“I believe, after all, that I must accept your kind offer of help, Miss Winge—it is getting late.”
They were at table when the bell rang. It was Mrs. Gram’s niece, Aagot Sand. Mrs. Gram introduced Jenny.
“Oh, you are the artist with whom Helge spent so much of his time in Rome. I guessed that much when I saw you in Stenersgaten one day in the spring. You were walking with Uncle Gert, and carried your painting things.”
“You must be mistaken, Aagot,” said Mrs. Gram. “When do you imagine you saw them?”