Harz poised his brush, as though it were a spear: “A man must do the best in him. If he has to suffer—let him!” Dawney stretched his large soft body; a calculating look had come into his eyes. “You're a tough little man!” he said. “I've had to be tough.” Dawney rose; tobacco smoke was wreathed round his unruffled hair. “Touching Villa Rubein,” he said, “shall I call for you? It's a mixed household, English mostly—very decent people.” “No, thank you. I shall be painting all day. Haven't time to know the sort of people who expect one to change one's clothes.” “As you like; ta-to!” And, puffing out his chest, Dawney vanished through a blanket looped across the doorway. Harz set a pot of coffee on a spirit-lamp, and cut himself some bread. Through the window the freshness of the morning came; the scent of sap and blossom and young leaves; the scent of earth, and the mountains freed from winter; the new flights and songs of birds; all the odorous, enchanted, restless Spring. There suddenly appeared through the doorway a white rough-haired terrier dog, black-marked about the face, with shaggy tan eyebrows. He sniffed at Harz, showed the whites round his eyes, and uttered a sharp bark. A young voice called: “Scruff! Thou naughty dog!” Light footsteps were heard on the stairs; from the distance a thin, high voice called: “Greta! You mustn't go up there!” A little girl of twelve, with long fair hair under a wide-brimmed hat, slipped in. Her blue eyes opened wide, her face flushed up. That face was not regular; its cheek-bones were rather prominent, the nose was flattish; there was about it an air, innocent, reflecting, quizzical, shy. “Oh!” she said. Harz smiled: “Good-morning! This your dog?” She did not answer, but looked at him with soft bewilderment; then running to the dog seized him by the collar. “Scr-ruff! Thou naughty dog—the baddest dog!” The ends of her hair fell about him; she looked up at Harz, who said: “Not at all! Let me give him some bread.” “Oh no! You must not—I will beat him—and tell him he is bad; then he shall not do such things again. Now he is sulky; he looks so always when he is sulky. Is this your home?” “For the present; I am a visitor.” “But I think you are of this country, because you speak like it.” “Certainly, I am a Tyroler.” “I have to talk English this morning, but I do not like it very much—because, also I am half Austrian, and I like it best; but my sister, Christian, is all English. Here is Miss Naylor; she shall be very angry with me.” And pointing to the entrance with a rosy-tipped forefinger, she again looked ruefully at Harz. There came into the room with a walk like the hopping of a bird an elderly, small lady, in a grey serge dress, with narrow bands of claret-coloured velveteen; a large gold cross dangled from a steel chain on her chest; she nervously twisted her hands, clad in black kid gloves, rather white about the seams.