"Yes," he said.
"Well"—she rose, buttoned her jacket, and opened the paint-box—"I must work now."
"And I suppose you would like to get rid of me?"
Jenny smiled. "I daresay you are tired too."
"Not very—I must pay the bill."
She called the woman and helped him, squeezing out colours on to her palette meanwhile.
"Do you think you can find your way back to town?"
"Yes; I remember exactly how we came, and I shall soon find a cab, I suppose. Do you ever go to the club?"
"Yes, sometimes."
"I should like very much to meet you again."
"I daresay you will"—and after a moment's hesitation:
"Come and see us one day, if you care, and have tea. Via Vantaggio 111. Cesca and I are generally at home in the afternoon."
"Thanks, I should like to very much. Good-bye, then, and thanks so much."
She gave him her hand: "The same to you."
At the gate he looked back; she was scraping her canvas with a palette knife and humming the song they had heard in the café. He remembered the tune, and began to hum it himself as he walked away.
Jenny brought her arms out from under the blanket and put them behind her neck. It was icy cold in the room, and dark. No ray of light came through the shutters. She struck a match and looked at her watch—it was nearly seven. She could doze a little longer, and she crept down under the blankets again, with her head deep in the pillow.
"Jenny, are you asleep?" Francesca opened the door with-
