‘I am certain it’s some wretched love affair!’ he muttered, as he strode abstractedly away from the Jägerstrasse towards his own house. ‘Good heavens! to think of _that_ woman’s talent being palsied by some wretched sentimental _Schwärmerei_; it is horrible. Why is not genius created senseless, sexless, sentimentless? But then, of course, it could never appeal to sense, and sex, and sentiment, as it must if it is to be an influence. It is a thousand pities, it is lamentable. And Falkenberg wrote of her in what might for him be called enthusiastic strains. I wish there were some way of saving her. I wish the man would play false, or that some shock would rouse her from this apathy!’ It may here be casually observed that Professor Wilhelmi cherished a conviction that he understood woman, and could account for and cure all her vagaries, had he but the power placed in his hands. It was a delusion broken every day by the conduct of his own wife and daughter, to whom, in all matters outside his art, he was a slave, but he lived in it still, and would live in it till he died. Meantime the Indian summer dawned, and flamed itself out here too, as well as at Wellfield. September went out, and October was ushered in with unusual mildness and glory. It was a sight to gladden the eyes of an artist, even the low flat country which at Elberthal stretches for unbroken miles on either side the broad Rhine. For there were glorious sunsets, colouring river, and field, and town, with strange glorified lights, and at that sunset-time in the Hofgarten, the yellow golden beams shone in a glowing, dazzling mist through the autumn trees, and flooded every twig, every stick and stone, with mellow radiance. At that time the stalls of the old women at the street corners were piled high with grapes, and plums, and russet pears, which fruits were to be purchased for almost nothing. At that time it was good to sail down the river to Kaiserswerth, or up the stream to Neuss, and to return at sunset, and watch the pomp of it glorifying the majestic river. There was no striking beauty of crag or waterfall, of castled Drachenfels or magic Loreley, but there were the great plains stretching Hollandwards, dressed in their autumn garments; the broad expanse of water sweeping by, strong and untroubled; the busy humming town behind, with its throb of varied life, its many interests, its treasures of art and joy, its music and melody, inseparable from all true German life.