scenery in a theatre, were in reality dirty and shabby, with bits of paper, dented, empty tins and rubbish lying about; and the vegetation of the south was represented by greyish black evergreen, naked, prickly shrubs, and yellow, faded rushes.
On this sunny morning he understood suddenly that even such a sight holds beauty for those who can see.
Jenny Winge took the road between garden walls at the back of the church. The walls were covered with ivy, and pines rose behind them. She stopped to light a cigarette.
"I am a pronounced smoker, you see," she said, "but I have to refrain when I am with Cesca, for her heart does not stand it; out here I smoke like a steam-engine. Here we are."
A small, yellow house stood inside a fence; in the garden were tables and forms under big, bare elms, and a summer-house made of rush stalks. Jenny greeted the old woman who came out on the doorstep.
"Well, Mr. Gram, what do you say to breakfast?"
"Not a bad idea. A cup of strong coffee and a roll and butter."
"Coffee! and butter! Listen to him! No, eggs and bread and wine, lettuce and perhaps some cheese. Yes, she says she has cheese. How many eggs do you want?"
While the woman laid the table Miss Winge carried her easel and painting accessories into the garden, and changed her long, blue evening wrap for a short coat, which was soiled with paint.
"May I have a look at your picture?" asked Helge.
"Yes—I am going to tone down that green—it is rather hard. There is really no light in it yet, but the background is good, I think."
Helge looked at the painting; the trees looked like big grease splashes. He could see nothing in it.
"Here's breakfast coming. We'll throw the eggs at her if they are hard. Hurrah, they aren't!"
