't you remember the smooth faced, very good-looking
young man?--you ought to model him. He was with Siegfried when he spoke
to me." "And you say that he admires your Isolde?" persisted Arthmann,
pulling at his short reddish beard. "Why, of course! Didn't he play the
piano accompaniments?" "Was his wife always with you?" "Now, Herr
Arthmann, you are a regular gossipy German. Certainly she wasn't. We in
America don't need chaperons like your Ibsen women--are you really
Norwegian or Polish? Is your name, Wenceslaus, Bohemian or Polish?
Besides, here I am alone in your studio in Bayreuth, the most
scandal-mongering town I ever heard of. My mother would object very much
to this sort of thing, and I'm sure we are very proper." "Oh, very,"
replied the sculptor; "when do you expect your mother? To-morrow, is it
not?"

The girl nodded. Tired of talking, she watched with cool nervousness the
movements of the young man; watched his graceful figure, admirable
poses; his long, brown fingers smoothing and puttering in the clay; his
sharply etched profile, so melancholy, insincere. "And this Dennett?" he
resumed. She opened her little mouth. "Please don't yawn, Fridolina," he
begged. "I wasn't yawning, only trying to laugh. Dennett is on your
mind. He seems to worry you. Don't be jealous--Wenceslaus; he is an
awful flirt and once frightened me to death by chasing me around the
dressing-room at the opera till I was out of breath and black and blue
from pushing the chairs and tables in his way. And what do you suppose
he gave as an excuse? Why, he just said he was exercising me to reduce
my figure, and hadn't the remotest notion of kissing me. Oh, no, he
hadn't, had he?" She pealed with laughter, her companion regarding her
with tense lips. "No one but a Yankee girl would have thought of telling
such a story." "Why, is it improper?" She was all anxiety. "No, not
improper, but heartless, simply heartless. You have never loved,
Margaret Fridolina," he said, harshly. "Call me Meg, Wenceslaus, but not
when mamma is present," was her simple answer. He threw down his wooden
modelling spatula.

"Oh, this is too much," he angrily exclaimed: "you tell me of men who
chase you"--"a man Wenceslaus," she corrected him earnestly--"you tell
me all this and you know I love you; without your love I shall throw up
sculpture and go to sea as a sailor. Meg, Meg, have you no heart?" "Why,
you little boy, what have I said to offend you? Why are you so cynic