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 "Oh yes. I remember now, he has a photo of you. He would not say who it was."

Heggen's attention was drawn to their conversation.

"Yes," said Francesca inaudibly; "I think I gave him a photo once."

"All the same, he is too much of a bully for me," said Hjerrild, "unpardonably rude, but perhaps that is why he is irresistible to women. Rather too plebeian for my taste."

"That was exactly what …"—she searched for the right words—"what I admired in him was that he had made his way from the bottom of the ladder to where he now stands—such a struggle must necessarily make one brutal, it seems to me. Don't you think that a great deal—almost anything—can be excused from that point of view?"

"Nonsense, Cesca," said Heggen suddenly. "Hans Hermann was discovered when he was thirteen, and has been helped along ever since."

"Yes, but to have to accept help always, to have to thank other people for everything and always be afraid of being ignored, neglected, reminded of being—as Hjerrild just said—of plebeian origin."

"I might say the same about myself—the last, I mean."

"No, you cannot, Gunnar. I'm sure you have always been superior to your surroundings. When you came among people of higher social standing than the one you were born to, you were superior even there. You were cleverer; you had greater knowledge and a finer mind. You could always feel strong in the consciousness of having done it all yourself. You were never obliged to thank people that you knew looked down upon you because of your low birth, who snobbishly supported a talent which they did not understand, and who were inferior, though believing they stood above you. You did not have to thank people you could not feel grateful to. No, Gunnar, you cannot speak of the feelings of a man of the people,