Arthmann
sourly; he imagined that Dennett was exchanging secret signals with her.
She bubbled over with wrath. "Temperament! I have temperament enough
despite my size. If I haven't any I know where to find it. There is no
sacrifice I'd not make to get it. Art for art is my theory. First art
and then--the other things." She shrugged her massive shoulders in high
bad humor. Arthmann gloomily reflected that Dennett's phrases at the
Sammett Garden were being echoed. Mrs. Fridolin continually urged her
driver to keep his carriage abreast of the other. It made the party more
sociable, she declared, although to the sculptor it seemed as if she
wished to watch Margaret closely. She had never seemed so suspicious.
They reached the Hermitage.

Going home a fine rain set in; the hoods of the carriage were raised,
and the excursion ended flatly. At the hotel, Arthmann did not attempt
to go in. Mrs. Fridolin said she had a headache, Miss Bredd must write
articles about Villa Wahnfried, while Dennett disappeared with Margaret.
The drizzle turned into a downpour, and the artist, savage with the
world and himself, sought a neighboring cafe and drank till dawn....

He called at the hotel the following afternoon. The ladies had gone
away. How gone away? The portier could not tell. Enraged as he saw his
rich dream vanishing, Arthmann moved about the streets with lagging,
desperate steps. He returned to the hotel several times during the
afternoon--at no time was he very far from it--but the window-blinds
were always drawn in the Fridolin apartment and he began to despair. It
was near sunset when his _Hausfrau_, the disappearing chaperon, ran to
him red-faced. A letter for Herr Arthmann! It was from her: "I've gone
in search of that temperament. _Auf Wiedersehen._ Isolde." Nothing more.
In puzzled fury he went back to the hotel. Yes, Madame Fridolin and the
young lady were now at home. He went to the second landing and without
knocking pushed open the door. It was a house storm-riven. Trunks
bulged, though only half-packed, their contents straggling over the
sides. The beds were not made, and a strong odor of valerian and camphor
flooded the air. On a couch lay Mrs. Fridolin, her face covered with a
handkerchief, while near hovered Miss Bredd in her most brilliant and
oracular attitude. She was speaking too loudly as he entered: "There is
no use of worrying yourself sick about Meg, Mrs. Fridolin. She's gone
for a time--that's all. When s