"You are a strange mortal, Herr von Rosebud," answered the painter, angrily. "In art you rave over nothing but old leather, but in life no school-girl's complexion is rosy and satiny enough to suit you. It is true, my beauty here told me herself that she was already--but I won't be such a fool as to tell a girl's secret to gentlemen. But of this I can assure you: that twenty years from now, when certain pretty little dolls' faces have long grown old and faded, that woman there will still be so beautiful that people will stand still in the streets to look after her."
"And may we be permitted to ask of what nationality she is?" inquired Felix.
"Why not? She makes no secret of the fact that she is from Saxony, although you would never detect it from her accent; nor that her name is Julie S., nor that she lost her old mother a year or so ago, and now stands quite alone in the world. However, we haven't been having a mere family gossip, but the most profound conversation on art-matters. She is more intelligent in such things, let me tell you, than many of our colleagues. And now you must excuse me, gentlemen, if I don't let you interrupt me in my work, but go on and finish this background to-day, before the colors dry in."
Up to this time Jansen had not spoken a syllable. Now he stepped up to Angelica, gave her his hand, and said:
"If you don't spoil this, my dear friend, you will make something out of it that will do you great honor. Adieu!"
He turned quickly away, and strode out of the studio without casting a glance to right or left.
CHAPTER IX.
When his friends overtook him in the street he remained silent and serious; while Rosenbusch praised, in the most extravagant language, the beauty of the picture.
"If my heart were not already in such firm hands," he said, with a sigh, "who knows what might happen! But constancy is no empty dream. Besides, Angelica would scratch any one's eyes out who tried to play the Romeo to her Juliet. But where are you dragging us to, Jansen?"
"We are going to see 'Fat Rossel.'"