With Fru Dahl he came forward and was presented. “Herr Olsen, Herr Axel Olsen.” To Helga Crane that meant nothing. The man, however, interested her. For an imperceptible second he bent over her hand. After that he looked intently at her for what seemed to her an incredibly rude length of time from under his heavy drooping lids. At last, removing his stare of startled satisfaction, he wagged his leonine head approvingly.

“Yes, you’re right. She’s amazing. Marvelous,” he muttered.

Everyone else in the room was deliberately not staring. About Helga there sputtered a little staccato murmur of manufactured conversation. Meanwhile she could think of no proper word of greeting to the outrageous man before her. She wanted, very badly, to laugh. But the man was as unaware of her omission as of her desire. His words flowed on and on, rising and rising. She tried to follow, but his rapid Danish eluded her. She caught only words, phrases, here and there. “Superb eyes . . . color . . . neck column ... yellow . . . hair . . . alive . . . wonderful. . . .” His speech was for Fru Dahl. For a bit longer he lingered before the silent girl, whose smile had become a fixed aching mask, still gazing appraisingly, but saying no word to her, and then moved away with Fru Dahl, talking rapidly and excitedly to her and her husband, who joined them for a moment at the far side of the room. Then he was gone as suddenly as he had come.

“Who is he?” Helga put the question timidly to a hovering young army officer, a very 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,4 not to be consulted personally even on matters affecting her personally? She, Helga Crane, who almost all her life had looked after herself, was she now to be looked after by Aunt Katrina and her husband? It didn’t seem real.