“They are not ordinary corals, you know,” Miss Jahrman deigned to answer. “They are contadina corals, a fat chain with a gold clasp and heavy drops—like that.”
“Contadina—is that a special kind of coral?” asked Helge.
“No. It is what the contadinas wear.”
“But I don’t know what a contadina is, you see.”
“A peasant girl. Have you not seen those big, dark red, polished corals they wear? Mine are exactly the colour of raw beef, and the bead in the middle is as big as that”—and she formed a ring with her thumb and forefinger the size of an egg.
“How beautiful they must be,” said Helge, pleased to get hold of the thread of conversation. “I don’t know what malachite is, or cristallo rossa, but I am sure that corals like those would suit you better than anything.”
“Do you hear, Ahlin? And you wanted me to have the malachite necklace. Heggen’s scarf-pin is malachite—take it off, Gunnar—and Jenny’s beads are cristallo rosso, not rossa—red rock crystals, you know.”
She handed him the scarf-pin and the necklace. The beads were warm from contact with the young girl’s neck. He looked at them a while; in every bead there were small flaws, as it were, which absorbed the light.
“You ought really to wear corals, Miss Jahrman. You would look exactly like a Roman contadina yourself.”
“You don’t say so!” She smiled, pleased. “Do you hear, you others?”