ommencement of each spring he would appear at
Botzen, driving his own horses by easy stages from the Italian Riviera,
where he spent the coldest months. He always stayed till June before
going back to his London Club, and during all that time he let no day
pass without growling at foreigners, their habits, food, drink, and
raiment, with a kind of big dog's growling that did nobody any harm. The
illness had broken him very much; he was seventy, but looked more. He
had a servant, a Luganese, named Dominique, devoted to him. Nicholas
Treffry had found him overworked in an hotel, and had engaged him with
the caution: "Look--here, Dominique! I swear!" To which Dominique, dark
of feature, saturnine and ironical, had only replied: "Tres biens,
M'sieur!"

III

Harz and his host sat in leather chairs; Herr Paul's square back was
wedged into a cushion, his round legs crossed. Both were smoking, and
they eyed each other furtively, as men of different stamp do when first
thrown together. The young artist found his host extremely new and
disconcerting; in his presence he felt both shy and awkward. Herr Paul,
on the other hand, very much at ease, was thinking indolently:

'Good-looking young fellow--comes of the people, I expect, not at all the
manner of the world; wonder what he talks about.'

Presently noticing that Harz was looking at a photograph, he said: "Ah!
yes! that was a woman! They are not to be found in these days. She could
dance, the little Coralie! Did you ever see such arms? Confess that she
is beautiful, hein?"

"She has individuality," said Harz. "A fine type!"

Herr Paul blew out a cloud of smoke.

"Yes," he murmured, "she was fine all over!" He had dropped his
eyeglasses, and his full brown eyes, with little crow's-feet at the
corners, wandered from his visitor to his cigar.

'He'd be like a Satyr if he wasn't too clean,' thought Harz. 'Put vine
leaves in his hair, paint him asleep, with his hands crossed, so!'

"When I am told a person has individuality," Herr Paul was saying in a
rich and husky voice, "I generally expect boots that bulge, an umbrella
of improper colour; I expect a creature of 'bad form' as they say in
England; who will shave some days and some days will not shave; who
sometimes smells of India-rubber, and sometimes does not smell, which is
discouraging!"

"You do not approve of individuality?" said Harz shortly.

"Not if it means doing, and thinking, as those who