: The Wellfields: A novel. Vol. 1 of 3 by Fothergill Jessie - English fiction 19th century

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when they lived in the country, were wont to be dull. And dulness was the bane of the countess's existence. In their hatred of it she and her husband were sworn allies; they were never known to oppose one another's schemes for killing time, though it often happened that in their zeal in that cause they would both have provided some entertainment for the same time. When this occurred, the rule was that each should give way in turn, and this plan was found to answer admirably, and to be productive of the greatest harmony, conjugal and social.

'No one knows who else may be coming,' said one. 'I think die Trockenau is much too careless. She does not consider the dignity of our position.'

'That' was Sara Ford, who came sweeping down the room with her head in the air, followed by Herr Falkenberg, to whom she talked in her frank, audible, unconstrained English fashion, and who begged her to come with him to the terrace that he might show her a view which he said ought to be painted.

'These English girls!' sighed one of the native nobility, shaking her head portentously. 'If I were to see my Paula monopolise a man in that way--but she is incapable of even speaking to a gentleman before he speaks to her. If a girl of mine were to be like that, I should die.'

Sara had never met Herr Falkenberg before. His name was well known to her and to other artists as a judge of almost unerring taste, and a patron of generous liberality. He was the last of a line of financiers and bankers of princely fortune and passionate devotion to 'the noble pastime of art.' She had felt highly flattered when Frau von Trockenau brought him to her, saying:

'See!' said he, as they came to the end of the terrace--and he pointed to the round shoulder of a hill, round the foot of which a bend of the river flowed in a silver curve, while the setting sun gave the most mellow and warm tints to the stretch of the landscape in the background--'that is almost perfect; there is a meaning in the scene--a poetry. Do you not see it?'

'Indeed I do!' she replied; the deep look settling in her eyes, which always visited them when she looked upon grand or beautiful things, and which alone would have made her face a rare one. 'I see it!' she continued; 'and I have studied and sketched it often since I came here, and the result has been despair! I hate myself, and every attempt I make. I don't think landscape is my forte.'

'Oh, Herr Falkenberg, you are flattering! It is impossible. I often think how presumptuous it is in me to imagine that I shall ever do well in either. Why should I?'

'Why should you not?' he asked, smiling. 'You are ambitious.'

He had seated himself on the arm of a bench at the end of the terrace, and Sara was leaning upon the parapet, her arms folded on the ledge of it; her glorious eyes gazing out upon the feast of colour, of rich calm beauty which lay below. As he uttered the last words, the deep musing look left those eyes; another fire flashed like lightning into them. Her lips parted, the delicate nostril quivered. She raised her head, and looked full at her companion.

'Yes, I am. I am as ambitious as a man--the worse for me, I suppose.'

'I do not say so. How old are you?'

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