‘I have lived there now for two years, entirely, except when friends have invited me to visit them.’
‘And alone?’
‘Alone, except for my old servant, Ellen, my second mother, who lives with me.’
‘And you have neither father nor mother?’ he asked.
‘No! My mother died when I was a baby, almost. My father worshipped her. He never married a second time. Nearly three years ago he also died. I have very few relations, and those not congenial. I may therefore say, I am alone in the world.’
‘And—and—excuse the question,’ he said, flushing violently, so that she looked at him in surprise. ‘Are you—but really, I have no right to ask.’
‘What do you mean, Herr Falkenberg?’
‘I wondered whether you were entirely dependent on your art, for——’
‘Oh, I thought you were going to ask, like my aunt in England, what I did when I was asked out, and had no chaperon to take me,’ said Sara, laughing. ‘Am I dependent on my art for the means of subsistence? No! I have just one hundred pounds a year of my own, Herr Falkenberg, safe and secure.’
‘I am glad of that,’ said he, with a sympathetic smile of relief. ‘It makes all the difference. With that income certain, you may live to your art as art.’