were totally lacking in character, for neither the woman nor the artist
was betrayed in their appointments. Everything was scrupulously clean and
painfully neat about them. German-fashion, the square table was pushed
close to the sofa, and held a lamp and four never-opened books. Here
Fräulein Vogel seated herself, turned up the lamp-wick, and then crossed
her long, lean, sinewy hands in her lap. The tall white porcelain stove
made the room so warm that she presently rose and set a window open a
little way. She was indeed a dangerous, unconventional creature, a
Prussian who cared neither for great ladies nor draughts. She stood there,
feeling the damp air of early spring blow in her face. From the beer-hall
near by came the sound of music; over the pavement rattled a cart drawn by
two weary dogs and followed by a yet wearier peasant-woman; with a brave
clink-clank of spurs and sword strode by a brave lieutenant. Above all
these sounds Fräulein Vogel's quick ear caught a light foot-fall on the
bare stairs without. She crossed the parlor and flung open the door.

"Mees."

"Yes, most gracious lady."

"Ridiculous,--'gracious lady'! Come in."

Mees obeyed, and took the place of honor on the sofa beside the painter.

"I have a favor to ask," she said, with a deprecatory smile, "Don't call
me Mees, please. It does not mean anything."

"Shall I say Mees Varing?" asked the painter, with a struggle to pronounce
the name properly.