At last it grew too dark to read another word, and then she closed the book and fell into a reverie of—the author. She knew he was a visitor at the house, and for once her curiosity was strongly excited. She resolved to see him. She would make Maggie point him out the next time he came, and see for herself what manner of man this young genius was. There had been a steel portrait of him in the book, but Miss Felice had carefully cut it out and preserved it for her own private use, as something not to be profaned by vulgar eyes, to the violent indignation of Miss Maggie.
While she still sat musing dreamily, she was startled by hearing the door flung open, and then a gleam of light flashed through the curtain. Hoping it might be some servant to light the gas, she glanced out between the folds and saw Miss Felice herself, standing beside a tall, handsome, distinguished-looking young man. Retreat was now out of the question. Georgia would not have encountered the stranger for worlds, lest he should happen to recognize her; and, trusting they only came for a book and would soon go away again, she resolved to sit still.
"And so you will translate 'Undine' for me, Mr. Randall," said Miss Felice, whose dress was perfection, and whose face was quite brilliant with smiles. "Oh, that will be charming. The children's governess teaches German, but I never could get her to read Undine."
This, then, was the poet. At any other time she would have become completely absorbed in looking at him, but the mention of "Undine" sent a pang to her heart, and she sank back in her seat and bowed her face in her hands. The sweet, sorrowful story of the German poet seemed so like her own—she was the Undine, Freddy Richmond was the base, designing Bertalda, and Huldbrand—oh, no, no! Richmond was not like him.
"It is a lovely tale. You do well to learn German, Miss Leonard, if only for the sake of reading 'Undine' in the original," said Mr. Randall.
"I have something else that is lovely here," said Miss Leonard, looking arch.
"Yes—yourself," said Mr. Randall.
"No, no; of course not—W. D. Randall's poems."
"And you call that lovely! Well, I gave you credit for better taste, Miss Felice."
"Oh, they are charming, sweet, so nice!" cried Miss Felice, clasping her hands in a small transport.