he soft, white flesh of a woman, you have greatly deceived
yourself. However, since you have already done quite enough preparatory
studying in this field--"

He suddenly broke off. On the landing, outside, they heard a pleasant
feminine voice say:

"Is this the way to Fraeulein Minna Engelken's studio?"

"If you will kindly give yourself the trouble to mount a flight
higher," responded the hoarse bass of the janitor. "The door to the
right--the name is on the sign. The Fraeulein has been there for the
last two hours."

"Thanks."

At the first sound of the voice Jansen had hurried to the door; he now
opened it a little and peeped out. Then he came back to Felix, and,
with his face slightly flushed, went silently to work.

"Who was the lady?" asked Felix, though he felt no particular curiosity
on the subject.

"The stranger we saw yesterday. Strange! when I heard that unknown
voice her face suddenly came up before my eyes again."

Felix said nothing. He had gone up to the modeling-bench, had begun to
work at a great ball of clay about as large as the skull, and appeared
to be completely absorbed in his task.

But they had scarcely been working on in this way, side by side and in
silence, for more than a quarter of an hour when some one knocked
softly on the door and Rosenbusch entered, looking excited, merry, and
full of mischief.

He nodded to the friends, stepped close up to them and said, with an
air of mysterious importance: "Do you know who is up-stairs? The
lady of the Pinakothek! Angelica is painting her picture--she has
succeeded--an incredibly resolute woman that! And can keep a secret
like the devil! Now just conceive of it; I discovered her early this
morning clearing up her studio, as though the queen had given notice of
a visit. For that matter it always does look damned elegant and neat up
there--flowers in whichever direction you turn, and a hothouse
fragrance that makes you sick. But, to-day, it is a positive show-room!
'What the devil is this, Angelica?' said I; 'is to-day your birthday,
or are you going to get engaged, or are you painting a Russian
princess?'--for I had long forgotten all about the affair of yesterday.
But she, turning round the old yellow-silk cushion on the armchair so
as to present the side which had the fewest spots--she scarcely looked
at me, and said: 'Go and get to work, Herr von Rosebud'--that is what
she always calls me when she is cross--'I am not at home to you,