“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.

II

It was early morning four days later, and Harz was loitering homewards.  The shadows of the clouds passing across the vines were vanishing over the jumbled roofs and green-topped spires of the town.  A strong sweet wind was blowing from the mountains, there was a stir 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.