‘No, I’m afraid not,’ replied Sara Ford, who had been standing near him watching him as he touched her picture here and there. The scene was her atelier. The time was a broiling afternoon in September; but here, in this sunless room, facing north, it was cooler than elsewhere. She was dressed in a long, plain gown of some creamy white stuff. Her face was pale, and her eyes somewhat heavy and languid. The masses of wavy, chestnut hair lay somewhat heavily and droopingly over the white temples and broad brow. The only spot of decided colour about her was the glossy dark-green leaves of a _Gloire de Dijon_ rose which was stuck in the breast of her dress—a species of rose which Professor Wilhelmi, with his keen and observant artist’s eye, had remarked his favourite pupil had lately become very fond of wearing. He had noticed, too, that during the past few weeks she had become, if possible, more beautiful than ever, with a sudden glow and blaze of beauty which was none the less brilliant in that it was accompanied by a silence and quietness greater than of yore. Wilhelmi was an artist to his very soul. Creed, nationality, and rank counted as nothing, and less than nothing, with him. Genius was his care and his watchword. Two years ago he had, he believed, found that Sara Ford had received a spark of the divine fire, and from that moment she had been as his own child to him—his soul’s child, the child of his highest and purest individuality. And as time went on he had thought also to discover in her the industry which some have said _is_ genius. All had gone triumphantly until at the end of last July she had returned from her visit to Nassau, and he, coming to her to resume his lessons, had found that something had taken flight—something else had appeared in its place. The exchange was the more annoying in that he could not name either the one thing or the other. As she spoke to him now, he glanced down at her large white hand, which had been resting on the easel as he and she spoke. Had that ring of sapphires which had replaced the old diamond rose that she used to wear anything to do with the change in her? ‘How you have changed my inanimate little daub, Herr Professor!’ she said. ‘It was without life. All that I do now seems without life. Sometimes I think I had better put away my paint and my brushes, and lock up my atelier for the next six months, and not look at a canvas for that length of time.’ ‘Do so, if you can,’ he replied; ‘but if you do I shall know that your nature has changed.’ She was silent, still looking down upon the sketch. Wilhelmi, who looked grave and concerned, did not speak for a short time. At last he said: ‘Do you know that poor Goldmark died this morning?’ ‘Did he!’ exclaimed Sara, a rapid flash of sorrow and sympathy passing over her face. ‘How very sad! Such a talent and such a career cut off in that manner.’