"Mr. Ingram. Edward Ingram. Come and talk to him while I get tea."
She had even forgotten to shut the door in her excitement, and a puff of wind from the open window picked up Herr Dremmel's papers and blew them into confusion.
He endeavoured to catch them, and requested her in a tone of controlled irritation to shut the door.
"Oh, how dreadful of me!" she said, hastily doing it, but with gaiety.
"I do not know," then said Herr Dremmel, mastering his annoyance, "Mr. Ingram."
"Rut, Robert, it's the Mr. Ingram. Edward Ingram. The greatest artist there is now. The great portrait painter. Berlin has—"
"Is he a connection of your family's, Ingeborg?"
"No, but he painted Ju—"
"Then it is not necessary for me to interrupt my afternoon on his behalf."
And Herr Dremmel bent his head over his papers again.