Alma’s own, vagueness of purpose, infirmity of will, Miss Steinfeld had a fund of moral principle which made her talk wholesome and her aspirations an influence for good.  She imagined herself in love with an artist whom she had seen only two or three times, and no strain could have been more exalted than that in which she confided her romance to the sympathetic Alma.  Sympathetic, that is, within her limits; for Miss Frothingham had never been in love, and rarely indulged a mood of sentiment.  Her characteristic emotions she of course did not reveal, save unconsciously, and Miss Steinfeld knew nothing of the tragic circumstances which explained her friend’s solitude.

In the first days at Bregenz they felt a renewal of pleasure in each other’s society; Alma’s spirits were much improved; she enjoyed the scenery, and lived in the open air.  There was climbing of mountains, the Pfander with its reward of noble outlook, and the easier Gebhardsberg, with its hanging woods; there was boating on the lake, and rambling along its shores, with rest and refreshment at some Gartenwithschaft.  Miss Steinfeld, whose reading and intelligence were superior to Alma’s, liked to explore the Roman ruins and linger in the museum.  Alma could not long keep up a pretence of interest in the relics of Brigantium; but she said one day, with a smile ——­

’I know someone who would enjoy this kind of thing —­ an Englishman —­ very learned ——­’

‘Old?’ inquired her friend significantly.

’Yes —­ no.  Neither old nor young.  A strange man; rather interesting.  I’ve a good mind,’ she added mischievously, ‘to send him a photograph.’

‘Of yourself?’

‘Oh dear, no!  He wouldn’t care for that.  A view of the Alt-Stadt.’

And in her mood of frolic she acted upon the thought.  She purchased two or three views, had them done up for post, and addressed them to Harvey Rolfe, Esq, at the Metropolitan Club; for his private address she could not remember, but the club remained in her mind from Sibyl’s talk of it. when the packet was gone, of course she regretted having sent it.  More likely than not, Mr. Rolfe considered himself to have ended all acquaintance with the disgraced family, and, if he recognised her handwriting, would just throw the photographs aside.  Let him; it mattered nothing, one way or the other.

When a week had passed, the novelty of things wore off; the friends began to wander apart; Miss Steinfeld made acquaintances in the pension, and Alma drifted into solitude.  At the end of a fortnight she was tired of everything, wished to go away, thought longingly of England.  It was plain that Mr. Redgrave would not come; he had never seriously meant it; his Auf Wiedersehen was a mere civility to get rid of her in the street.  Why had he troubled to inquire about her at all?  Of course it didn’t matter —­ nothing mattered —­ but if ever she met him again!  Alma tried her features in expression of cold scornfulness.