“You are a modern painter—I suppose you all are?”
Jenny smiled slightly, but did not answer.
The others waited at the bottom of the stairs. Jenny shook hands with the men and said good morning.
“What do you mean by that?” said Heggen. “You are not really going off to work now?”
“Yes; that is what I mean.”
“You are marvellous!”
“Oh, don’t, Jenny, come home!” Francesca shivered.
“Why shouldn’t I work? I am not a bit tired. Mr. Gram, hadn’t you better take a cab home from here?”
“I suppose so. Is the post office open now? I know it is not far from the Piazza di Spagna.”
“I am going past it—you can come with me.” She nodded a last time to the others, who began to walk homeward. Francesca hung limp on Ahlin’s arm, overcome with sleep.