The Disagreeable Man smiled grimly.

“I hope he will be able to recognize her!” he said.  Then, feeling that he was on dangerous ground, he added quickly: 

“If you want any more plates, I can oblige you.”

On her way to her room she stopped to talk to pretty Fraeulein Mueller, who was in high spirits, having had an excellent report from the Doctor.  Fraeulein Mueller always insisted on talking English with Bernardine; and as her knowledge of it was limited, a certain amount of imagination was necessary to enable her to be understood.

“Ah, Miss Holme,” she said, “I have deceived an exquisite report from the Doctor.”

“You are looking ever so well,” Bernardine said.  “And the love-making with the Spanish gentleman goes on well, too?”

“Ach!” was the merry answer.  “That is your inventory!  I am quite indolent to him!”

At that moment the Spanish gentleman came out of the Kurhaus flower-shop, with a beautiful bouquet of flowers.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, handing them to Fraeulein Mueller, and at the same time putting his hand to his heart.  He had not noticed Bernardine at first, and when he saw her, he became somewhat confused.  She smiled at them both, and escaped into the flower-shop, which was situated in one of the covered passages connecting the mother-building with the dependencies.  Herr Schmidt, the gardener, was making a wreath.  His favourite companion, a saffron cat, was playing with the wire.  Schmidt was rather an ill-tempered man, but he liked Bernardine.

“I have put these violets aside for you, Fraeulein,” he said, in his sulky way.  “I meant to have sent them to your room, but have been interrupted in my work.”

“You spoil me with your gifts,” she said.

“You spoil my cat with the milk,” he replied, looking up from his work.

“That is a beautiful wreath you are making, Herr Schmidt,” she said.  “Who has died?  Any one in the Kurhaus?”

“No, Fraeulein.  But I ought to keep my door locked when I make these wreaths.  People get frightened, and think they, too, are going to die.  Shall you be frightened, I wonder?”

“No, I believe not,” she answered as she took possession of her violets, and stroked the saffron cat.  “But I am glad no one has died here.”

“It is for a young, beautiful lady,” he said.  “She was in the Kurhaus two years ago.  I liked her.  So I am taking extra pains.  She did not care for the flowers to be wired.  So I am trying my best without the wire.  But it is difficult.”

She left him to his work, and went away, thinking.  All the time she had now been in Petershof had not sufficed to make her indifferent to the sadness of her surroundings.  In vain the Disagreeable Man’s preachings, in vain her own reasonings with herself.

These people here who suffered, and faded, and passed away, who were they to her?

Why should the faintest shadow steal across her soul on account of them?