"Ah, my art," repeats Sophie. "That is the most indifferent part of the matter for me. I have not worked by your side for a year in vain, my heart. Less time would have sufficed to teach me how great is the difference between my mediocre skill and your truly great talent. That is over, Nita; I will miss my art a little, but the being with you very painfully."
"I shall also miss you very much, faithless one, but your room shall be ready for you at any time. Another shall never take your place, that I promise you; and when you wish to pass a few weeks in Paris, you know who will receive you with open arms."
"Oh, you dear love! How often I shall remember you. The time I have spent with you will always be the most beautiful part of my life!" sighs Sonia.
"So! Do you think so? We will hope not; I foresee very much happiness for you." And stroking Sophie's hand, Nita adds in a softer tone: "It will all turn out as you wish and as you deserve, you brave little thing, you!"
"I may, at least, accompany you to the station?" begs Sophie. On the steps of the coupé, with the last embrace, she murmurs to her friend, who has concealed the true reason of her sudden departure under a trivial pretext: "I know why you are going to England; I have guessed. God bless you and your undertaking. Farewell!"
As soon as Nita has arrived in London, and going to the light, roomy, comfortable chamber prepared for her, has removed some of the dust of travel, she writes the following note to Bärenburg:
"Dear Karl:--I beg you to have the kindness to call upon me in the course of the morning at Oakley Lodge, No. 7 Holland Lane. I have something important to speak to you about. If you cannot come in the morning, be so good as to fix an hour at which I can expect you with certainty.
Twenty-four hours have passed since her arrival in London. A sleepless night in which she has with difficulty prepared what she will say to her cousin, and never could find the right words, lies behind her. Breakfast is over--lunch. Afternoon begins to lose itself in evening. Bärenburg has not appeared. That he might stay away, might not notice her letter, had never occurred to her.
She had always stood on the best footing with her cousin. From youth he had had a weakness for his charming, talented, only, alas! so "deplorably eccentric, cousin." Never had he refused her any favor she had asked him, and if she had sent for him, he had always come sooner than she expected him. No, never for an instant had she doubted that he would come. If she had felt excited and anxious the whole morning, it was only from dislike of the unpleasant explanation with him. Now she knew very well what she would say to him. She need only describe Mascha's grief to him, her touching fear of exposing him, her eagerness for death.