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“Well, it’s too late now; no good crying over spilt milk,”
laughed Jenny.
The luggage arrived; her mother and sisters watched the
unpacking with interest. Ingeborg and Bodil carried the things
into Jenny’s room and put them in the drawers; the embroidered
underlinen, which Jenny told them she had bought in Paris, was
handled almost with reverence. There was great joy over the
gifts to themselves: shantung for summer dresses and Italian
bead necklaces. They draped themselves in the stuff before the
glass, and tried the effect of the beads in their hair. Kalfatrus
alone showed some interest in her pictures, trying to lift the box
that contained her canvases.
“How many have you brought?”
“Twenty-six, but they are mostly small ones.”
“Are you going to have a private exhibition — all by
yourself?”
“I don’t know yet — I may, some day.”
While the girls were washing up and Nils was making his
bed on the sofa, Mrs. Berner and Jenny had a chat in Jenny’s
room over a cup of tea and a cigarette.
“What do you think of Ingeborg?” asked Mrs. Berner
anxiously.
“She looks well and bright, but, of course, she will need
looking after. We must send her to live in the country till she
gets quite strong again.”
“She is so sweet and good always — bright and full of fun,
and so useful in the house. I am so anxious about her; I
think she has been out too much last winter, dancing too much,
and keeping late hours, but I had not the heart to refuse her
anything. You had such a sad childhood, Jenny — I know
you missed the company of other children, and I was sure you
and papa would think it right to let the child have all the
pleasure she could.” She sighed. “My poor little girls, they
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