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