Dinner, their midday dinner, was over; and the afternoon was advancing. Sara could not paint; so, saying she had a headache, she did not enter her studio, but remained in the other room with a book. Ellen and Avice were both in the atelier. Ellen with her sewing, which she usually took there when her mistress was not painting, and sometimes when she was. Avice was painting. She had a very pretty talent for making water-colour drawings; and Wilhelmi, out of his regard for Sara, had given her a few hints on different occasions, by which she had not failed to profit. Thus Sara had her book, her parlour, and her thoughts to herself, and felt the monopoly to be of anything but an exhilarating character. She scarce saw the printed page; she was so engrossed in her wonder as to what had really been in Jerome’s mind when he wrote her that letter, and by the bitter sense of indignity she experienced in the utter silence of to-day. Not a line; not a word from him. It was amazing—incomprehensible! She had not answered the letter. She was wondering whether she should do so, whether she should wait another day; in the hope of hearing from him that he had been hasty, ill-advised; that he had decided not to let his sister return with Father Somerville. Then some one knocked at the door, and in answer to her _Herein!_ Rudolf Falkenberg entered. ‘Send me away if I disturb you,’ he said, pausing, and looking rather doubtfully at her. ‘Not in the least. Pray come in, Herr Falkenberg, and try to instil some of your wisdom into me, for I am a very foolish person.’ ‘As how?’ he asked, taking a chair near her, when she had given him her hand; ‘and what has happened, that I find you sitting here in the middle of the afternoon, like——’ ‘Like a banker on his holiday, or a lady of independent means, or some other equally enviable person,’ said Sara. ‘You will own that the position for you is an anomaly, at least.’ ‘I suppose it is. I cannot paint to-day. I have other things to think of.’ Her face clouded. ‘I am going to lose my dear little companion.’ She told him this as a fact, though she had been debating within herself whether to wait till she heard ‘certainly’ from Wellfield. ‘Miss Wellfield! Is she going?’ ‘Yes. Her brother is ready for her to come home, and as a suitable escort offers, he has sent for her.’ ‘I see. And that will leave you alone.’ ‘When she is gone, and you are gone, I shall be quite alone.’