“That is to the stables,” said Greta, pointing down a path, where some pigeons were sunning themselves on a wall.  “Uncle Nic keeps his horses there:  Countess and Cuckoo—­his horses begin with C, because of Chris—­they are quite beautiful.  He says he could drive them to Kingdom-Come and they would not turn their hair.  Bow, and say ‘Good-morning’ to our house!”

Harz bowed.

“Father said all strangers should, and I think it brings good luck.”  From the doorstep she looked round at Harz, then ran into the house.

A broad, thick-set man, with stiff, brushed-up hair, a short, brown, bushy beard parted at the chin, a fresh complexion, and blue glasses across a thick nose, came out, and called in a bluff voice: 

“Ha! my good dears, kiss me quick—­prrt!  How goes it then this morning?  A good walk, hein?” The sound of many loud rapid kisses followed.

“Ha, Fraulein, good!” He became aware of Harz’s figure standing in the doorway:  “Und der Herr?”

Miss Naylor hurriedly explained.

“Good!  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.