“I remember,” she then said, “you picked up my music for me in a storm, nearly a month ago.”
“I thought you would not have known me again,” Holcombe stammered.
“Oh! yes, I am not forgetful. You have been very good to my patient, and I am very grateful, for he has eaten more this week than he has for a whole month.”
“I think I heard your father was ill, fräulein?”
“Oh! he has been so for many months. Is your English friend gone?”
“Yes; he has gone home to be married. I wish, fräulein, if you could suggest anything, I could be of some use, besides bringing fruit and flowers to this house. Do you know, since I have been in Frankfort, I have never found anything to do?”
“Do you mean,” she asked very gravely, “you wish to be of use to us?”
“I mean, if I could come and sit with Herr Löwenberg, and read or write for him, while you are away; for they tell me you are out all day, and it must be lonely for him.”
“That is very kind of you,” she answered, looking at him in calm wonder; “it is true he has no society, for the little girls hardly count.”
“Has he any books?” asked Holcombe. “Because I have plenty, and they might amuse him; and I have English newspapers, too, coming in regularly. Does he speak English?”