The girls turned a corner; Helge was close upon them, screwing up courage to address them. The smaller one turned round angrily and said something in Italian in a low voice. He felt disappointed and was going to vanish after an apology, when the tall one said in Norwegian: “You should not speak to them, Cesca—it is much better to pretend not to notice.”
“I cannot bear that cursed Italian rabble; they never will leave a woman alone,” said the other.
“I beg your pardon,” said Helge, and the two girls stopped, turning round quickly.
“I hope you will excuse me,” he muttered, colouring, and, angrily conscious of it, blushed still deeper. “I only arrived from Florence today, and have lost my way in these winding streets. I thought you were Norwegian, or at any rate Scandinavian, and I cannot manage the Italian language. Would you be kind enough to tell me where to find a car? My name is Gram,” he added, raising his hat again.
“Where do you live?” asked the taller girl.
“At a place called the Albergo Torino, close to the station,” he explained.
“He should take the Trastevere tram at San Carlo ai Catenari,” said the other.
“No; better take a No. 1 at the new Corso.”
“But those cars don’t go to the Termini,” answered the little one.
“Yes, they do. Those that have San Pietro, stazione Termini, written on them,” she explained to Helge.