Frau Wurm was a competent teacher—­practical and brisk.  She drew up a list of menus, of shops to be dealt at, and hours for different tasks.  As she worked she talked incessantly in excellent guttural English; her talk consisted of a series of personal and impertinent questions—­her curiosity was of the mean and hungry class, and to every reply, satisfactory or otherwise, she invariably ejaculated, “Ach so!”

Among other matters she desired to know Sophy’s age—­the age of her mother—­and sister; if their washing was given out; who had paid for her passage and outfit; where her mother lived, the rent of her house, and number of servants.

“So she keeps three servants!” she exclaimed.  “Ach! but I thought she was poor!”

“No, not poor,” replied Sophy.  “Mother has a pretty good income.”

“Ach so! and that is the reason, I suppose, that you cannot cook or make your own frocks, or do anything useful.  Are you engaged to be married?”

“No,” replied Sophy with a laugh, “not yet.”

“Ach so!  I do not think your uncle will permit you to marry any of those silly young English officers, who play games all day and are ashamed to wear uniform.  Have you any relations in the Army?”

“Yes, I have two cousins; one in the Flying Corps and one in a submarine.”

“Ach so!  That is most interesting.  Some day you will tell me all about them, will you not?  I like to hear about submarines.”

“Very well,” said Sophy, who was busy mixing a pudding according to an elaborate German recipe.

“Yes, you are getting on,” admitted Frau Wurm patronisingly.  “You will be a good little housekeeper before I have finished with you.  Tell me—­how is your aunt to-day?” she asked abruptly.

“She seems better, much better.”

“Yes, much better—­better since yon came; you rouse her, though she doesn’t get up now till eleven o’clock.  She suffers from such a strange complaint—­very mysterious,” she added with a significant sniff.

“I don’t think there is anything mysterious about neuralgia.”

“Oh, yes, there is,” rejoined Frau Wurm, lowering her voice; “we often talk it over and wonder.  Long ago she was as others; now she is different, and seems but half awake—­always so jaded and feeble and vague.  There was only one who understood the case—­that was Fernanda, and she has gone away, ach so!”

Sophy found her present life unexpectedly strenuous.  The mornings were devoted to incessant house-keeping, writing lists, and making pickles and German condiments; in the afternoons her aunt absorbed her time.  She did not seem to come to life till then.

“I know I am selfish,” she confessed, as she looked through a number of invitations and cards which had been left for Sophy.  “I do so want to keep you to myself; I don’t wish to share you with the Maitlands and Morgans and Pomeroys; you have brought me a new lease of life.  Of late I have felt like a half-dead creature, without even the energy to open a book, much less to get up and dress.  I have the Burma head, and take no interest in anything.”