in April; she had accompanied little Frances and
her foster-mother to the station, and had thus given up the last thing
she had to exercise her sentimental devotion upon; and now she walked
slowly to her studio, firmly determined to seek consolation in her art.
But on arriving up stairs, where a fresh canvas was already awaiting
her, she made a mistake in the door, and, instead of going into her own
workshop, knocked at the battle-painter's, of whom she had not caught a
glimpse for several days.

Rosenbusch knew her knock well. He always declared it was a pity she
did not play on the piano, she had such an excellent touch. However, he
did not seem inclined to let her in; at all events she had to knock
three times, and to call out that it was no use, he needn't pretend any
longer, she had seen him through the keyhole sitting there, and must
come in for ten minutes as she had an order for him; then, at last, he
slowly got up, crept to the door, sighing, and drew back the bolt.

As she entered she cast a stolen look at the bare walls of the room,
that was as damp and chilly as a cellar, and at its miserable occupant,
who had folded his shawl tight about his body just as a beetle does his
wings in a rainstorm, and, with his pinched, half-starved looking
little nose, was making a wretched attempt to look chipper and pleased.

"What are you making such an _ecce homo_ face for?" she said, in her
brusquest tone, which now stood her in good stead in concealing her
emotion. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Herr von Rosenbusch, to
sit here in a corner and mope, this heavenly weather. Besides, it's so
cold here that the oil would freeze on one's brush. But I forget, you
are not doing any painting now. You have another acute attack of your
chronic laziness--or are you sick?"

"You are mistaken, honored patroness," said Rosenbusch, in his silver
tenor, which now, however, sounded a little cracked. "I am quite well,
with the exception of a certain nervousness that is often to be found
among artists; atrophy of the _nervus rerum_, the men of science call
it. Besides, I am not sitting here so idle as you perhaps imagine; I am
working away at my great picture, having accustomed myself of late to
first complete the picture in my head, down to the last light effect on
the nostrils of a pack-horse. In this way you save an incredible deal
of color that you would otherwise have wasted in constant scratching
out. You ought to try it, A