persistence which would not be accounted for merely by the fact that she, as an artist by nature and by trade, must delight in all things beautiful. For it was not all delight, far from it, which she felt in the haunting presence of that face. There was delight, but even more strongly there was the sense of captivity, the intuitive consciousness that she, like Gretchen, might make her moan: ‘Meine Ruh’ ist hin, Mein Herz ist schwer; Ich finde sie nimmer Und nimmermehr!’ ‘Did you enjoy the concert?’ asked Jerome, suddenly, after that long look which had passed between them. ‘Yes, in a way. I don’t much care for the music they have at places like this, but it was better than usual to-night. But I prefer our homely Elberthal concerts—so far as music is concerned. Here one goes to look at the people and the dresses, and to hear the gossip, and very amusing it is. I think you don’t go much to the concerts?’ ‘No! I really cannot stand the everlasting waltzes and mazurkas and operatic selections. And one gets so tired of watching the same affected, overdressed women and insipid-looking men engrossed in one another.’ ‘Yesterday the countess and I were sitting in the gardens, when we saw a man and woman coming along. The woman was dressed most gorgeously, and could scarcely walk because of her high heels; she hobbled along looking pitiful. He was a tall, strong, robust-looking fellow, and he carried her shawl, and her parasol, and her little bag with her handkerchief and scent-bottle, and he led her little white dog along by a blue ribbon; and he seemed happy.’ Wellfield laughed a little contemptuously. ‘I can imagine a man, if he were weak-minded, descending to even that depth, for the sake of some woman,’ continued Sara, reflectively. ‘What I cannot understand is, that any woman should like him for doing it; should be gratified in seeing him acting the part of a lady’s-maid to her. But I have seen many things lately which have puzzled me. Is your sister fond of music?’ ‘Yes, I think so.’ ‘You only think so?’ ‘I hardly know her, you know. She is my half-sister. Once, when she was a mere baby, I saw her; and not again till a month ago—till I came here. Most likely I shall see more of her now. My father has been instructing me in my duties towards her, and he is perfectly right. If he would but come home and settle down at Wellfield all would be well. It is not good for a girl to live in hotels, with no woman about her whom she really knows, except her maid.’ ‘No, indeed. But your sister does not look in the least spoiled by that life.’ ‘Because she is so isolated. She never goes amongst the people at these places; she cannot, because my father himself does not. But it is a dull life for her.’ ‘How old is she, exactly?’ ‘A little more than sixteen.’ ‘You must know, though, that she is very lovely now, and that sometime she will be remarkably beautiful.’