follow. Ernestine seemed to draw things to her in a way very wonderful to
him.

"You know, liebchen,"--as he saw that steady light of resolution shine
through the veil of her tenderness--"it seems so queer to me that you
really _do_ anything."

"Well for a neatly turned compliment--"

"I mean it seems so queer you should really _amount_ to anything."

"Now before you overwhelm me with further adulation, what _are_ you
talking about?"

"I'm talking about your being an artist. I can't get used to your being
anything but _Ernestine_! That day last spring when we went to see your
Salon picture, and when those chaps were talking to you, and I realised
that they just simply accepted you as one of them--that you belonged, and
that that was all there was about it--I, oh I had such a funny feeling
that day. And now, a minute ago, when I saw that look, I had it again."

"Why, Karl, you don't _mind_, do you?"

"No, it's just that it seems queer. You see you're such a wonderful
sweetheart, it's hard to think of you as anything else. I'll never forget
that day over there. Something just seemed to leap up within you. I--well
I think I was a little scared--or was I awed? Something that was shining
from your eyes made me feel things in my backbone."

"But you're glad?" she laughed.