She paused, as did also Jerome Wellfield, and the others went on. Wellfield had not yet spoken to Sara, and while Frau von Trockenau discoursed with much animation to Falkenberg on some point connected with the morrow’s excursion, Jerome turned to Miss Ford.
The flush of exultation which her conversation with Falkenberg had aroused, died from her cheeks. She silently put her hand into that of Wellfield, while he, an expression of pleasure dawning in his face, asked her how she did.
After a few minutes, the countess put her hand within Falkenberg’s arm, and they went up the terrace, in earnest conversation. Jerome and Sara were left standing alone.
‘Herr Falkenberg is a friend of yours?’ asked Wellfield.
‘I don’t know. I hope he will be. He would be a very valuable friend to me.’
‘I can suppose so. Does he wish you to paint this scene?’
‘Yes. And it is very beautiful. Do you not think so?’
‘It is—lovely. I wish you could see the place my father will not live at—Wellfield Abbey and the country round about. As an artist, you would delight in it.’
‘But it is in Lancashire, isn’t it?’ asked Sara.
‘Yes. What then?’ inquired he.