strolled on, was not exactly animated. Jansen
seemed to be lost in thought; long silences were a habit of his, and,
especially when there were several people about him, he could remain
for hours apparently without the least interest in what was going on.
And then, if something that was said happened to kindle a spark in him,
his eloquence seemed all the more surprising. Felix knew him well, and
made no attempt to disturb his abstracted mood. He looked about him as
he walked, and tried to recognize the streets that he had first
strolled through, long before, in one of his vacation journeys. Nor did
Rosenbusch seem to be in a particularly talkative frame of mind; and
only Angelica, who had a way of assuming a certain chaffing tone toward
him, and besides was out of humor because, as she said, she had got
"into a blind alley" with one of her pictures, kept up a fire of little
sarcasms and ridicule against her neighbor. She even adopted the
familiarity of calling him by his nickname, but not without putting a
"Herr" before it.

"Do you know, Herr Rosebud, when you're composing a picture, you ought
to repeat your poems instead of playing the flute? I know it would
inspire you a great deal more, and your neighbors would suffer less.
Now, to-day, for instance, I put some carmine on a whole group of
children I was painting, and spoiled it, just because that everlasting
_adagio_ of yours had made me so sentimental."

"Why didn't you pound on the door, then, my honored friend, as we
agreed, and then I would have 'ceased my cruel sport?'"

"If it hadn't been Sunday, and I hadn't said to myself it will soon be
twelve o'clock, and then he'll stop anyhow--. But see that sweet little
girl in the carriage--the one with the blue hat, next to the young
man--it's a bridal couple, surely! What eyes she has! And how she
laughs, and throws herself back in the carriage like a thoughtless
child!"

She had stopped in the street in her ecstasy, and impulsively imitated
the gesture of the girl who was driving by, bending back and crossing
her arms behind her head. The friends stood still and laughed.

"I must beg of you, Angelica, calm your enthusiasm," growled
Rosenbusch; "you forget that not only God and your artistic friends are
looking at you, but profane eyes also, that can't imagine what you are
driving at with your rather reckless studies of posture."

"You are right," said the little painter, casting a scared glance about
her, but