s want to know what people think about a future life; that is so
funny!"

"How can I tell?" said Harz; "I've never really thought of it--never had
the time."

"How can you help thinking?" Christian said: "I have to--it seems to me
so awful that we might come to an end."

She closed her book, and it slipped off her lap. She went on: "There
must be a future life, we're so incomplete. What's the good of your
work, for instance? What's the use of developing if you have to stop?"

"I don't know," answered Harz. "I don't much care. All I know is, I've
got to work."

"But why?"

"For happiness--the real happiness is fighting--the rest is nothing. If
you have finished a thing, does it ever satisfy you? You look forward to
the next thing at once; to wait is wretched!"

Christian clasped her hands behind her neck; sunlight flickered through
the leaves on to the bosom of her dress.

"Ah! Stay like that!" cried Harz.

She let her eyes rest on his face, swinging her foot a little.

"You work because you must; but that's not enough. Why do you feel you
must? I want to know what's behind. When I was travelling with Aunt
Constance the winter before last we often talked--I've heard her discuss
it with her friends. She says we move in circles till we reach Nirvana.
But last winter I found I couldn't talk to her; it seemed as if she
never really meant anything. Then I started reading--Kant and Hegel--"

"Ah!" put in Harz, "if they would teach me to draw better, or to see a
new colour in a flower, or an expression in a face, I would read them
all."

Christian leaned forward: "It must be right to get as near truth as
possible; every step gained is something. You believe in truth; truth is
the same as beauty--that was what you said--you try to paint the truth,
you always see the beauty. But how can we know truth, unless we know
what is at the root of it?"

"I--think," murmured Greta, sotto voce, "you see one way--and he sees
another--because--you are not one person."

"Of course!" said Christian impatiently, "but why--"

A sound of humming interrupted her.

Nicholas Treffry was coming from the house, holding the Times in one
hand, and a huge meerschaum pipe in the other.

"Aha!" he said to Harz: "how goes the picture?" and he lowered himself
into a chair.

"Better to-day, Uncle?" said Christian softly.

Mr. Treffry growled. "Confounded humbugs, doctors!" he said. "Your
father used to swear by them; why, his doctor ki