Two days later, in the afternoon, when Jenny was painting in her studio, Helge’s father called. As he stood with his hat in his hand, she saw that his hair was grey—so grey that she could not make out what the original colour had been, but he still looked young. He was thin, and had a slight stoop—not the stoop of an old man, but rather of one too slender for his height. His eyes too were young, though sad and tired and so big and blue that they gave one a curious impression of being wide open, surprised, and at the same time suspicious. “I was very anxious to meet you, Jenny Winge,” he said, “as you can understand for yourself. No; don’t take off your overall, and tell me if I disturb you.”
“Not in the least,” said Jenny warmly. She liked his smile and his voice. She threw her overall on a chair: “The light is almost gone already. It was very good of you to come and see me.”
“It is a very long time since I was in a studio,” said Gram, sitting down on the sofa.
“Don’t you ever see any of the other painters—your contemporaries?” asked Jenny.
“No, never,” he answered curtly.
[134]
“But”—Jenny bethought herself—“how did you find your way up here? Did you ask them at home for my address, or at the artists’ club?”
Gram laughed.
“No; I met you on the stairs the other day, and yesterday, as I was going to the office, I saw you again. I followed you. I was half a mind to stop you and introduce myself. Then I saw you go in here, and I knew there were studios in this house, so I thought I would pay you a visit.”
“Do you know,” said Jenny, with a merry laugh, “Helge too followed me in the street—I was with a friend. He had lost his way in the old streets by the rag market, and he came and spoke to us. That is how we made his acquaintance. We thought it rather cool at the time, but it seems to run in the family.”
Gram frowned, and sat quiet an instant. Jenny realized that she had said the wrong thing, and was thinking what to say next.
“May I make you some tea?” she asked, and without waiting for an answer lit the spirit-lamp under the kettle.
“Miss Winge, you must not be afraid that Helge is like me in other things. I don’t think he takes after his father in anything—fortunately.” He laughed. Jenny did not know what to say to this, and busied herself with the tea.
“It’s rather bare in here, as you see, but I live at home with my mother.”
“I see. This is a good studio, is it not?”
“I think so.”
After a moment he said: “I have been thinking of you very much lately, Miss Winge—I understood from my son’s letters that you and he....”
“Yes, Helge and I are very fond of each other,” said Jenny, looking straight at him. He took her hand and held it an instant.
[135]
“I know my son so little—his real self is almost unknown to me, but as you are fond of him you must know him far better. I have always believed that he was a good boy, and clever in a way, and the fact that you love him proves to me that I have reason to be pleased—and proud of him. Now that I know you, I can understand that he loves you, and I hope he will make you happy.”
“Thank you,” said Jenny, giving him her hand again.
“I am fond of the boy—he’s my only son—and I think he likes me too.”
“I know he does. Helge is very fond of you and of his mother.” She blushed as if she had been tactless.
“Yes, I believe so; but he must have seen long ago that his father and mother did not care for one another. Helge has not had a happy home, Jenny............