! An artist! Kommen Sie herein, I am delight. You will breakfast?
I too--yes, yes, my dears--I too breakfast with you this morning. I have
the hunter's appetite."

Harz, looking at him keenly, perceived him to be of middle height and
age, stout, dressed in a loose holland jacket, a very white, starched
shirt, and blue silk sash; that he looked particularly clean, had an air
of belonging to Society, and exhaled a really fine aroma of excellent
cigars and the best hairdresser's essences.

The room they entered was long and rather bare; there was a huge map on
the wall, and below it a pair of globes on crooked supports, resembling
two inflated frogs erect on their hind legs. In one corner was a cottage
piano, close to a writing-table heaped with books and papers; this nook,
sacred to Christian, was foreign to the rest of the room, which was
arranged with supernatural neatness. A table was laid for breakfast, and
the sun-warmed air came in through French windows.

The meal went merrily; Herr Paul von Morawitz was never in such spirits
as at table. Words streamed from him. Conversing with Harz, he talked
of Art as who should say: "One does not claim to be a connoisseur--pas si
bete--still, one has a little knowledge, que diable!" He recommended him
a man in the town who sold cigars that were "not so very bad." He
consumed porridge, ate an omelette; and bending across to Greta gave her
a sounding kiss, muttering: "Kiss me quick!"--an expression he had picked
up in a London music-hall, long ago, and considered chic. He asked his
daughters' plans, and held out porridge to the terrier, who refused it
with a sniff.

"Well," he said suddenly, looking at Miss Naylor, "here is a gentleman
who has not even heard our names!"

The little lady began her introductions in a breathless voice.

"Good!" Herr Paul said, puffing out his lips: "Now we know each other!"
and, brushing up the ends of his moustaches, he carried off Harz into
another room, decorated with pipe-racks, prints of dancing-girls,
spittoons, easy-chairs well-seasoned by cigar smoke, French novels, and
newspapers.

The household at Villa Rubein was indeed of a mixed and curious nature.
Cut on both floors by corridors, the Villa was divided into four
divisions; each of which had its separate inhabitants, an arrangement
which had come about in the following way:

When old Nicholas Treffry died, his estate, on the boundary of Cornwall,
had been sold and di