“Ah! my dear dears!” began Herr Paul, who in the presence of Miss Naylor always paraded his English. “Here is our friend, who has a very flattering request to make; he would paint you, yes—both together, alfresco, in the air, in the sunshine, with the birds, the little birds!” Greta, gazing at Harz, gushed deep pink, and furtively showed him her pig. Christian said: “Paint us? Oh no!” She saw Harz looking at her, and added, slowly: “If you really wish it, I suppose we could!” then dropped her eyes. “Ah!” said Herr Paul raising his brows till his glasses fell from his nose: “And what says Gretchen? Does she want to be handed up to posterities a little peacock along with the other little birds?” Greta, who had continued staring at the painter, said: “Of—course—I—want—to—be.” “Prrt!” said Herr Paul, looking at Miss Naylor. The little lady indeed opened her mouth wide, but all that came forth was a tiny squeak, as sometimes happens when one is anxious to say something, and has not arranged beforehand what it shall be. The affair seemed ended; Harz heaved a sigh of satisfaction. But Herr Paul had still a card to play. “There is your Aunt,” he said; “there are things to be considered—one must certainly inquire—so, we shall see.” Kissing Greta loudly on both cheeks, he went towards the house. “What makes you want to paint us?” Christian asked, as soon as he was gone. “I think it very wrong,” Miss Naylor blurted out. “Why?” said Harz, frowning. “Greta is so young—there are lessons—it is such a waste of time!” His eyebrows twitched: “Ah! You think so!” “I don't see why it is a waste of time,” said Christian quietly; “there are lots of hours when we sit here and do nothing.” “And it is very dull,” put in Greta, with a pout. “You are rude, Greta,” said Miss Naylor in a little rage, pursing her lips, and taking up her knitting. “I think it seems always rude to speak the truth,” said Greta. Miss Naylor looked at her in that concentrated manner with which she was in the habit of expressing displeasure. But at this moment a servant came, and said that Mrs. Decie would be glad to see Herr Harz. The painter made them a stiff bow, and followed the servant to the house. Miss Naylor and the two girls watched his progress with apprehensive eyes; it was clear that he had been offended. Crossing the veranda, and passing through an open window hung with silk curtains, Hart entered a cool dark room. This was Mrs. Decie's sanctum, where she conducted correspondence, received her visitors, read the latest literature, and sometimes, when she had bad headaches, lay for hours on the sofa, with a fan, and her eyes closed. There was a scent of sandalwood, a suggestion of the East, a kind of mystery, in here, as if things like chairs and tables were not really what they seemed, but something much less commonplace. The visitor looked twice, to be quite sure of anything; there were many plants, bead curtains, and a deal of silverwork and china.