‘As having discovered my attempts to be very poor, commonplace delusions after all.’ ‘That remains to be seen; all I hope is that you will not be offended if one who, by some misfortune, has got such an inveterate habit of pointing out what appear to him the merits and demerits of any composition, should——’ ‘That would be of the utmost advantage to me,’ said she, gaily, wondering how long the interview was to last, and wondering also, in strict privacy, whether critics—of that eminence—never relaxed into a laugh; whether a sedate smile were all their lips would condescend to. How long the interview might have lasted it is impossible to say. At that moment it was interrupted. Frau von Trockenau, with a number of the ingenuous girls before alluded to—whose tender years and inexperience she seemed to find somewhat embarrassing during the ‘off season,’ before the dancing began—Emily Leigh, Jerome Wellfield, Hans Lemde, and others, came up. ‘Oh, Herr Falkenberg!’ cried the countess, seeing him, ‘a word with you.’ She paused, as did also Jerome Wellfield, and the others went on. Wellfield had not yet spoken to Sara, and while Frau von Trockenau discoursed with much animation to Falkenberg on some point connected with the morrow’s excursion, Jerome turned to Miss Ford. The flush of exultation which her conversation with Falkenberg had aroused, died from her cheeks. She silently put her hand into that of Wellfield, while he, an expression of pleasure dawning in his face, asked her how she did. After a few minutes, the countess put her hand within Falkenberg’s arm, and they went up the terrace, in earnest conversation. Jerome and Sara were left standing alone. ‘Herr Falkenberg is a friend of yours?’ asked Wellfield. ‘I don’t know. I hope he will be. He would be a very valuable friend to me.’ ‘I can suppose so. Does he wish you to paint this scene?’ ‘Yes. And it is very beautiful. Do you not think so?’ ‘It is—lovely. I wish you could see the place my father will not live at—Wellfield Abbey and the country round about. As an artist, you would delight in it.’ ‘But it is in Lancashire, isn’t it?’ asked Sara. ‘Yes. What then?’ inquired he. ‘I always fancy it such a black, hideous place. I have only once been in Lancashire, when I passed through Preston with my father on our way to Scotland, years ago.’ ‘Then you passed not a hundred miles from Wellfield,’ he rejoined with some animation. ‘But I own, you could not be favourably impressed with what you saw there. It is not lovely. But Wellfield is.’ ‘Perhaps I may see it some day—who knows?’ said Sara, musingly. ‘I am sure I hope you may,’ he answered quickly. ‘There is nothing I should so much——’ He paused abruptly. Sara felt her face flush, and said quickly: ‘Would not you like to come down this side-walk—this ilex walk? The countess has spent a great deal of care and attention upon it, in remembrance of the ilexes of Rome.’