It was early morning four days later, and Harz was loitering homewards. The shadows of the clouds passing across the vines were vanishing over the jumbled roofs and green-topped spires of the town. A strong sweet wind was blowing from the mountains, there was a stir in the branches of the trees, and flakes of the late blossom were drifting down. Amongst the soft green pods of a kind of poplar chafers buzzed, and numbers of their little brown bodies were strewn on the path. He passed a bench where a girl sat sketching. A puff of wind whirled her drawing to the ground; Harz ran to pick it up. She took it from him with a bow; but, as he turned away, she tore the sketch across. “Ah!” he said; “why did you do that?” This girl, who stood with a bit of the torn sketch in either hand, was slight and straight; and her face earnest and serene. She gazed at Harz with large, clear, greenish eyes; her lips and chin were defiant, her forehead tranquil. “I don't like it.” “Will you let me look at it? I am a painter.” “It isn't worth looking at, but—if you wish—” He put the two halves of the sketch together. “You see!” she said at last; “I told you.” Harz did not answer, still looking at the sketch. The girl frowned. Harz asked her suddenly: “Why do you paint?” She coloured, and said: “Show me what is wrong.” “I cannot show you what is wrong, there is nothing wrong—but why do you paint?” “I don't understand.” Harz shrugged his shoulders. “You've no business to do that,” said the girl in a hurt voice; “I want to know.” “Your heart is not in it,” said Harz. She looked at him, startled; her eyes had grown thoughtful. “I suppose that is it. There are so many other things—” “There should be nothing else,” said Harz. She broke in: “I don't want always to be thinking of myself. Suppose—” “Ah! When you begin supposing!” The girl confronted him; she had torn the sketch again. “You mean that if it does not matter enough, one had better not do it at all. I don't know if you are right—I think you are.” There was the sound of a nervous cough, and Harz saw behind him his three visitors—Miss Naylor offering him her hand; Greta, flushed, with a bunch of wild flowers, staring intently in his face; and the terrier, sniffing at his trousers. Miss Naylor broke an awkward silence. “We wondered if you would still be here, Christian. I am sorry to interrupt you—I was not aware that you knew Mr. Herr—” “Harz is my name—we were just talking” “About my sketch. Oh, Greta, you do tickle! Will you come and have breakfast with us to-day, Herr Harz? It's our turn, you know.” Harz, glancing at his dusty clothes, excused himself. But Greta in a pleading voice said: “Oh! do come! Scruff likes you. It is so dull when there is nobody for breakfast but ourselves.” Miss Naylor's mouth began to twist. Harz hurriedly broke in: “Thank you. I will come with pleasure; you don't mind my being dirty?”