ard!" They were standing
in a ring: Harz with his eyebrows working up and down; the little lady
fidgeting her parasol; Greta, flushed and pouting, her eyes all dewy,
twisting an end of fair hair round her finger.

"Oh, look!" The coffee had boiled over. Little brown streams trickled
spluttering from the pan; the dog, with ears laid back and tail tucked
in, went scurrying round the room. A feeling of fellowship fell on them
at once.

"Along the wall is our favourite walk, and Scruff--so awkward, so
unfortunate--we did not think any one lived here--the shutters are
cracked, the paint is peeling off so dreadfully. Have you been long in
Botzen? Two months? Fancy! You are not English? You are Tyrolese? But
you speak English so well--there for seven years? Really? So
fortunate!--It is Greta's day for English."

Miss Naylor's eyes darted bewildered glances at the roof where the
crossing of the beams made such deep shadows; at the litter of brushes,
tools, knives, and colours on a table made out of packing-cases; at the
big window, innocent of glass, and flush with the floor, whence dangled a
bit of rusty chain--relic of the time when the place had been a
store-loft; her eyes were hastily averted from an unfnished figure of the
nude.

Greta, with feet crossed, sat on a coloured blanket, dabbling her fnger
in a little pool of coffee, and gazing up at Harz. And he thought: 'I
should like to paint her like that. "A forget-me-not."'

He took out his chalks to make a sketch of her.

"Shall you show me?" cried out Greta, scrambling to her feet.

"'Will,' Greta--'will'; how often must I tell you? I think we should be
going--it is very late--your father--so very kind of you, but I think we
should be going. Scruff!" Miss Naylor gave the floor two taps. The
terrier backed into a plaster cast which came down on his tail, and sent
him flying through the doorway. Greta followed swiftly, crying:

"Ach! poor Scrufee!"

Miss Naylor crossed the room; bowing, she murmured an apology, and also
disappeared.

Harz was left alone, his guests were gone; the little girl with the fair
hair and the eyes like forget-me-nots, the little lady with kindly
gestures and bird-like walk, the terrier. He looked round him; the room
seemed very empty. Gnawing his moustache, he muttered at the fallen
cast.

Then taking up his brush, stood before his picture, smiling and frowning.
Soon he had forgotten it all in his work.