be hasty designs for costumes.

"I said in a quarter of an hour," said Ingigerd slowly, making a wry
face.

"I'll come whenever I choose to," said Frederick.

Franck, rising without the least air of haste or confusion, greeted
Frederick with perfect cordiality and walked to the door.

"I don't want to disturb you. Good evening, Doctor von Kammacher," he
said with a grin betraying some delight in Frederick's annoyance.

"Rigo!" Ingigerd called after him. "You promised to come again to-morrow
morning."

"What's that boy doing in your room, Ingigerd?" Frederick demanded
somewhat roughly, in evident anger. "And 'Rigo'? What does 'Rigo' mean?
Are both of you out of your wits?"

Though this tone of his must have been new to her, it seemed agreeable to
her, for she said very humbly:

"Well, why did you stay away so long?"

"I'll tell you later. But as matters now stand between us, I forbid your
striking up such friendships. If you want to do something for the fellow,
present him with a comb and a nail brush and a tooth-brush. Besides, his
name isn't Rigo but Max, and he's a seedy sort of chap, absolutely
dependent upon his friends."

In his moments of jealousy, it was easy for Ingigerd to put Frederick to
shame.

"It makes no difference to me," she said, "whether a man is poor or rich,
whether he dresses like a dude or a tramp. Rigo intends to paint my
portrait, and I'm looking forward with pleasure to being his model."

"His model? You won't be his model. I'll see to that," said Frederick.
"But please explain how you hit upon 'Rigo'? Why do you call him 'Rigo'?
Tell me."

"His mother was a gypsy, and when he was a child, some respectable people
took him into their family."

"Do you believe that? Franck's friends say he lies every time he opens
his mouth."

"I'm not a father confessor. He may lie for all I care."

Frederick did not reply.

Ingigerd was still sitting at the table. With gentle ardour he pressed
his lips to her head, loosened the ribbon tying her hair at the nape of
her neck, and plunged his fingers deep into the wave of flowing gold.

"Where were you?" the girl asked. Frederick told her of Peter Schmidt and
the exhilarating afternoon in Ritter's studio.

"I don't like that sort of thing," she said. "How can people drink wine?"

The thought passed through Frederick's mind that the girl's remarks were
rather flat and failed to echo the things he had been telling her.

About an hour later