"Haven't I? Ah! That makes a difference! But what has become of it? Has it been used for fuel? There's nothing for it then, but to lie down on our mother earth, or rubbish, or whatever it may be."
They lay down in their clothes on the floor-packing, having made a kind of bed for themselves of pieces of canvas and old newspapers, and pushed cases filled with sketches underneath their heads. Olle struck a match, produced a tallow candle from his trousers pocket and put it on the floor beside him. A faint gleam flickered through the huge, bare studio, passionately resisting the volumes of darkness which tried to pour in through the colossal windows.
"It's cold to-night," said Olle, opening a greasy book.
"Cold! Oh no! There are only twenty degrees of frost outside, and thirty in here because we are so high up. What's the time, I wonder?"
"I believe St. John's just struck one."
"St. John's? They have no clock! They are so poor that they had to pawn it."
There was a long pause which was finally broken by Sellén.
"What are you reading, Olle?"
"Never mind!"
"Never mind? Hadn't you better be more civil, seeing that you are my guest?"