She did not mention her lover again to FrA¤ulein Vogel, but she showed her his portrait; and the sharp-eyed painter looked at the frank, manly face a long time.

“Write to him, you foolish woman,” she said.

“Not yet.  I will wait a little longer,” Kitty rejoined.

The summer wore away.  In August they went for a fortnight to a little place near Remagen,—­Bad Neunahr it is called,—­and here Kitty’s eyes were opened, and she suddenly awoke to the fact that her new friend was no ordinary friend.

“You need not worry about money,” said FrA¤ulein Vogel.  “If you don’t learn how to make it, you know how to spend it.  I could never learn that myself.”

But in the autumn Kitty only worked the harder, believing with all her heart that patience would make a respectable, picture-selling painter out of a Chinese mandarin.  When the gray dawn stole in at the window she sprang out of bed, dressed, and was off to the studio for an hour before breakfast.  She begrudged the time spent for dinner, she bemoaned a dark day, and she laid her brushes down reluctantly in the twilight.  In the evening she wanted to go to the theatre, to a concert, to a supper.  Such as she find plenty of companions, and from time to time DAYsseldorf raised its hands over her doings.  FrA¤ulein Vogel watched and waited in a sort of patient agony, but at last, not without deep reflection, she wrote a letter to Kitty’s sweetheart.  She read his name on the back of a photograph, she knew well how to spell the name of the town, she knew the town was near New York, she knew New York was in North America, and she had to buy an extra big envelope to hold the whole address.  But the letter was a terrible thing, and a happy thought came to her.  She made a little picture of Kitty,—­a perfect little picture,—­and beneath it she wrote name and address.  That was better than a thousand letters.  Carefully she did it up, placing tissue-paper above and beneath the cardboard, and laying it tenderly in a white box.  Surely it could not go astray, unless all the post-office men were blind; but, to make sure, she would register it, if that were possible.  All must be done without Kitty’s knowledge, and the touch of mystery made the romance the sweeter.  One fine day she sallied forth to send the little portrait on its way.  She entered the Hof Garten, sauntered down the Linden AllA(C)e thinking all the while how delightfully the comedy would end.  Her own part, as good fairy of the play, pleased her, too, and she smiled to herself as she strayed off from the AllA(C)e and, seating herself on a bench that was well screened from prying eyes, she gave herself up to revery.  Of course the lover would come, of course he would carry Kitty off; but FrA¤ulein Vogel did not mean to be left far behind.  She would look after Kitty, for the foolish, impetuous creature would need at least two people to keep her out of mischief.

“Frank.”

Some one uttered the name, and FrA¤ulein Vogel peered through the leaves.  Sitting near was a pale, sweet-faced woman, drawing figures in the gravel with the tip of her parasol.