‘Yes; there is a wonderful charm about her,’ he said, and then they were both silent for a time.
Her clear grey eyes were fixed upon the fields below them—eyes so perfectly true, pure, and candid, he thought he had never seen. Now also, he saw the slight line about the mouth—a line which was sometimes a little hard, as if struggle and disillusionism had called it there. Her open gaze, her fearless smile, her unembarrassed manner of holding her way through the world—what was it all? Innocence, most assuredly; but ignorance—no. She knew the world, and knew that it was evil. He thought that in addition to innocence there was perfect comprehension of her position, great ambition, a great deal of pride, and, mixed with that, a touch of indifference that was almost cynical. She did not sneer; there was no sneer on the beautiful frank mouth, but there was disdain. He had never seen anything quite like her before. As he sat, looking earnestly at her, he began to reflect that very soon she would pass from his life. This conversation in the afternoon sunshine, under the shadow of the Dom, was pleasant—as sweet as it was unexpected, and different from all other conversations he had ever had. But soon it would be over. After a few days at Trockenau, she would return to her atelier; he to his business and his—pleasures. His pleasures, as he looked back upon them now, seen in the light of this sun, looked grey and dim and poor. Of course he need not lose sight of her, and the most natural way of keeping her in view, considering their relative positions, would be to give her a commission to paint him a picture. He felt himself revolted at the idea—felt the blood rise to his cheeks at the thought. Surely there must be some other way of keeping her in sight.
At this moment she turned, and found his eyes so intently fixed on her face, that her colour too rose a little, as she asked:
‘Have I said something that shocks you too, Herr Falkenberg? I should be sorry for that.’
‘Miss Ford!’ he exclaimed earnestly, ‘what you have told me makes me honour and respect you from my very soul. Do not for a moment think that your confidence has been misplaced, as it must have been if I were “shocked” at anything you have said. We only met yesterday, and yet I am bold enough to say that if you would consent to place me on the list of your friends and servants, I should indeed feel honoured.’
Sara looked at him with eloquent eyes and parted lips.
‘You are very kind,’ she said earnestly, ‘and I accept your kindness. I—my friends are not many, but they are prized. I should think it a privilege to count you amongst them, for I believe you have the same feelings about friendship that I have myself, and my ideas on the subject are by no means low ones.’
‘Nor mine. And for that reason I am like yourself. My friends are few,’ he said, taking the hand she extended, and raising it to his lips, his eyes still fixed on her face. Suddenly her own eyes filled with tears. She turned aside her face, and covered it with her other hand.
‘What have I done to deserve such kindness?’ she said tremulously, and profoundly moved. And indeed, what is there that should move a human soul more than such a discovery as this—the discovery of a friend? Schiller felt it when he sang in that great ode, which never has been and never can be translated without being ruined:
‘Wem der grosse Wurf gelungen,