There is a wealth of treasures in Mr. Sterner's portfolio, and his field of work is a delightfully broad one. Of his illustrations, those for a new edition of Edgar Allan Poe's works interested me most. Each picture had such definiteness about it that one could guess at once the lines it interpreted. Two of his most famous paintings which we asked to see were in America, but he showed us the exquisitely taken photographs. One represents a charming child, the other is that which I have seen so often in your own music room,—William Mason at the keyboard.
"And the new picture, is it finished yet?" asked Edith, who had been there before.
"It's the old story!" he said; "I've put it aside to work on pot-boilers!"
Fancy calling those wonderful illustrations of his by such a brutal name.
Thursday.
At last, my dear, I have something definite to tell you about Fräulein Hartmann. The most distressing thing occurred at dinner to-day. Just as we were having salad and composedly conversing about Arabic customs—a favorite subject of Herr Doktor and the Poet—in came the Italian ladies, with profuse apologies for their tardiness. They had been "doing" the Bavarian National Museum, and lingered too long over the ivory collection. One of them crossed to Fräulein Hartmann's place and handed her a letter.
"I met the postman on the stairs," she said, "and told him I would take any mail up, so he gave me this."
Fräulein thanked her for her kindness, then, glancing at the handwriting, suddenly flushed to the roots of her hair. A second later her aunt, who had been looking over her shoulder, snatched the letter from her hand. Frau Von Waldfel's face was crimson with anger and her black eyes snapped maliciously.
"I'll look after this, young lady," she said, thrusting the letter into her pocket. "A pretty pass when engaged girls receive love letters from other than their betrothed."
Her voice echoed harshly in the complete stillness of the room. Fräulein's face was a study—anger, mortification, and resentment at the insult thus publicly inflicted on her. She started as if to retort, then, recovering her self-possession, she folded her napkin with dignity, rose and left the room. Her head was proudly erect, but her blue eyes, usually so tranquil, were smouldering darkly.