"I would give a good deal to have a sister like pretty Fräulein Müller has," said little Fräulein Oberhof. "She came to look after me the other day when I was alone. She has the kindest way about her. But when my sister came in, she was not pleased to find Fräulein Sophie Müller with me. She does not do anything for me herself, and she does not like any one else to do anything either. Still, she is very good to other people. She comes up from the theatre sometimes at half-past nine--that is the hour when I am just sleepy--and she stamps about the room, and makes cornflour for the old Polish lady. Then off she goes, taking with her the cornflour together with my sleep. Once I complained, but she said I was irritable. You can't think how teasing it is to hear the noise of the spoon stirring the cornflour just when you are feeling drowsy. You say to yourself, 'Will that cornflour never be made? It seems to take centuries.'" "One could be more patient if it were being made for oneself," said M. Lichinsky. "But at least, Fräulein, your sister does not quarrel with every one. You must be grateful for that mercy!" Even as he spoke, a stout lady thrust herself into the reading-room. She looked very hot and excited. She was M. Lichinsky's mother. She spoke with a whirlwind of Polish words. It is sometimes difficult to know when these people are angry and when they are pleased. But there was no mistake about Mme. Lichinsky. She was always angry. Her son rose from the sofa and followed her to the door. Then he turned round to his confederates, and shrugged his shoulders. "Another quarrel!" he said hopelessly. CHAPTER XV. WHICH CONTAINS NOTHING. "YOU may have talent for other things," Robert Allitsen said one day to Bernardine, "but you certainly have no talent for photography. You have not made the slightest progress." "I don't at all agree with you," Bernardine answered rather peevishly. "I think I am getting on very well." "You are no judge," he said. "To begin with, you cannot focus properly. You have a crooked eye. I have told you that several times!" "You certainly have," she put in. "You don't let me forget that." "Your photograph of that horrid little danseuse whom you like so much," he said, "is simply abominable. She looks like a fury. Well, she may be one for all I know, but in real life she has not the appearance of one." "I think that is the best photograph I have done," Bernardine said, highly indignant. She could tolerate his uppishness about subjects of which she knew far more than he did; but his masterfulness about a subject of which she really knew nothing was more than she could bear with patience. He had not the tact to see that she was irritated. "I don't know about it being the best," he said; "unless it is the best specimen of your inexperience. Looked at from that point of view, it does stand first!" She flushed crimson with temper.