The room was in part darkness, as Frau von Arnim loved it best. A small lamp burned on her table, and by its light she could study his face unobserved.
"She has won all hearts—even to the coachman, who has a prejudice against foreigners," she said in a lighter tone, "and Hildegarde has become another person since her arrival. I do not know what we should do without her. When she first came she was, of course, baked in her insular prejudices, but she is so open-minded and broad-hearted that they have fallen away almost miraculously. We have not had to suffer—as is so often the case—from volleys of Anglo-Saxon criticisms."
"She seems musical, too," Wolff said, who was still listening with close attention to the unseen player.
"She is musical; so much so that I am having her properly trained at the Conservatorium," his aunt answered with enthusiasm. "When she has got out of certain English mannerisms she will do well. It is already a delight to listen to her."
A tide of warm colour darkened Wolff's face as he glanced quickly at Frau von Arnim's profile.
"I wonder what little pleasure—or perhaps necessity—you have denied yourself to perform that act of kindness?" he said.
"Neither the one nor the other, lieber Junge. If I deny myself one pleasure to give myself another, it can hardly be counted as a denial, can it? Besides, I believe her people are very badly off, and it is a shame that her talent should suffer for it. There! I am sure you want to go upstairs. Run along, and let me write my letters."
Wolff laughed at the old command, which dated back to the time when he had worried her with his boy's escapades.
"I'll just glance in and tell Hildegarde my good luck," he said, a little awkwardly. "I promised her I would let her know as soon as the news came."
"Do, dear Wolff."