Quicksand
smart captain just back from Sweden. Plainly he was surprised.
“Herr Olsen, Herr Axel Olsen, the painter. Portraits, you know.“
”Oh,” said Helga, still mystified.
“I guess he‘s going to paint you. You‘re lucky. He‘s queer. Won‘t do everybody.“
”Oh, no. I mean, I‘m sure you‘re mistaken. He didn‘t ask, didn‘t say anything about it.”
The young man laughed. “Ha ha! That‘s good! He‘ll arrange that with Herr Dahl. He evidently came just to see you, and it was plain that he was pleased.” He smiled, approvingly.
“Oh,” said Helga again. Then at last she laughed. It was too funny. The great man hadn‘t addressed a word to her. Here she was, a curiosity, a stunt, at which people came and gazed. And was she to be treated like a secluded young miss, a Danish ‘‘frøkken‘‘, not to be consulted personally even on matters affecting
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