“Oh, well, perhaps, he has got a little to do with the story, after all; for after that, Froeken Jensen became more important—­sharing in my reflected glory—­or, perhaps, now I come to think of it, it was only then that she became important.  Anyway, important she was; and, among others, Axel Larson—­who was got up as an ancient Gallic warrior, to show off his fine figure—­came up and asked me to introduce him.  I don’t think I should have done so ordinarily, for he was the filthiest-mouthed fellow in the atelier—­a great swaggering Don Juan Baron Munchausen sort of chap, handsome enough in his raffish way—­a tall, stalwart Swede, blue-eyed and yellow-haired.  But the fun of the position was that Axel Larson was one of my Cinderella’s ‘children,’ so I could not resist introducing him formally to ’Froeken Jensen.’  His happy air of expectation was replaced by a scowl of surprise and disgust.

“‘What, thou, Ingeborg!’ he cried.

“I could have knocked the man down.  The familiar tutoiement, the Christian name—­these, perhaps, he had a right to use; but nothing could justify the contempt of his tone.  It reminded me disagreeably of the ugliness I had nigh forgotten.  I felt Ingeborg’s arm tremble in mine.

“‘Yes, it is I, Herr Larson,’ she said, with her wonted gentleness, and almost apologetically.  ’This gentleman was good enough to bring me.’  She spoke as if her presence needed explanation—­with the timidity of one shut out from the pleasures of life.  I could feel her poor little heart fluttering wildly, and knew that her face was alternating from red to white beneath the mask.

“Axel Larson shot a swift glance of surprise at me, which was followed by a more malicious bolt.  ‘I congratulate you, Ingeborg,’ he said, ‘on the property you seem to have come into.’  It was a clever double entente—­the man was witty after his coarse fashion—­but the sarcasm scarcely stung either of us.  I, of course, had none of the motives the cad imagined; and as for Ingeborg, I fancy she thought he alluded merely to the conquest of myself, and was only pained by the fear I might resent so ludicrous a suggestion.  Having thrown the shadow of his cynicism over our innocent relation, Axel turned away highly pleased with himself, rudely neglecting to ask Ingeborg for a dance.  I felt like giving him ‘Hail Columbia,’ but I restrained myself.

“Some days after this—­in response to Ingeborg’s grateful anxiety to return my hospitality—­I went to dine with her ‘children.’  I found Axel occupying the seat of honour, and grumbling at the soup and the sauces like a sort of autocrat of the dinner-table, and generally making things unpleasant.  I had to cling to my knife and fork so as not to throw the water-bottle at his head.  Ingeborg presided meekly over the dishes, her ugliness more rampant than ever after the illusion of the mask.  I remembered now he had been disagreeable when I had dined there