“They always do, when they see that people don’t understand, and don’t know the language.”
“You don’t think it is pretty?” said Helge, downcast, and wrapped the pink tissue paper round his treasure. “Don’t you think I can give it to my mother?”
“I think it is hideous,” said Francesca, “but, of course, I don’t know your mother’s taste.”
“What on earth shall I do with it, then?” sighed Helge.
“Give it to your mother,” said Jenny. “She will be pleased that you have remembered her. Besides, people at home like those things. We who live out here see so much that we become more critical.”
Francesca reached her hand for Ahlin’s cigarette-case, but he did not want to let her have it; they whispered together eagerly, then she flung it away, calling: “Giuseppe!”
Helge understood that she ordered the man to bring her some cigarettes. Ahlin got up suddenly: “My dear Miss Jahrman—I meant only to ... you know it is not good for you to smoke so much.”
Francesca rose. She had tears in her eyes.
“Never mind. I want to go home.”