Paul Schlieben looked on with a strange uneasiness whilst his wife painted the children, first the big girl and then the small boy. How intently she gazed at the boy's round face. Her eyes were brilliant, she never seemed to be tired, and only paused when the children grew impatient. All her thoughts turned on the painting. Would the children come again that day? Was the light good? Surely there would not be a storm to prevent the children from coming? Nothing else was of any interest to her. She displayed great zeal. And still the pictures turned out bad; the features were like theirs, but there was no trace of the child-mind in them. He saw it clearly: those who are childless cannot paint children. Poor woman! He looked on at her efforts with a feeling of deep compassion. Was not her face becoming soft like a mother's, lovely and round when she bent down to the children? The Madonna type--and still this woman had been denied children. No, he could not look on at it any longer, it made him ill. The man bade the children go home in a gruff voice. The pictures were ready, what was the good of touching them up any more? That did not make them any better, on the contrary. That evening Kate cried as she used to cry at home. And she was angry with her husband. Why did he not let her have that pleasure? Why did he all at once say they were to leave? She did not understand him. Were the children not sweet, delightful? Was it because they disturbed him? "Yes," was all he said. There was a hard dry sound in his voice--a "yes" that came with such difficulty--and she raised her head from the handkerchief in which she had buried it and looked across at him. He was standing at the window in the carpeted room of the hotel, his hands resting on the window-ledge, his forehead pressed against the pane. He was gazing silently at the vast landscape before him, in which the mountaintops covered with snow that glowed in the radiance of the setting sun spoke to him of immortality. How he pressed his lips together, how nervously his moustache trembled. She crept up to him and laid her head on his shoulder. "What is the matter with you?" she asked him softly. "Do you miss your work--yes, it's your work, isn't it? I was afraid of that. You are getting tired of this, you must be doing something again. I promise you I'll be reasonable--never complain any more--only stop here a little longer, only three weeks longer--two weeks." He remained silent. "Only ten--eight--six days more. Not even that?" she said, bitterly disappointed, for he had shaken his head. She wound her arms round his neck. "Only five more--four--three days, please. Why not? Those few days, please only three days more." She positively haggled for each day. "Oh, then at least two days more." She sobbed aloud, her arms fell from his neck--he must allow her two days.