In the east, mountain peaks—­fingers of snow—­glittered above the mist.  A grave simplicity lay on that scene, on the roofs and spires, the valleys and the dreamy hillsides, with their yellow scars and purple bloom, and white cascades, like tails of grey horses swishing in the wind.

Herr Paul held out his hand:  “What can we do for you?” he said.

“I have to beg a favour,” replied Harz.  “I wish to paint your daughters.  I will bring the canvas here—­they shall have no trouble.  I would paint them in the garden when they have nothing else to do.”

Herr Paul looked at him dubiously—­ever since the previous day he had been thinking:  ’Queer bird, that painter—­thinks himself the devil of a swell!  Looks a determined fellow too!’ Now—­staring in the painter’s face—­it seemed to him, on the whole, best if some one else refused this permission.

“With all the pleasure, my dear sir,” he said.  “Come, let us ask these two young ladies!” and putting down his hose, he led the way towards the arbour, thinking:  ’You’ll be disappointed, my young conqueror, or I’m mistaken.’

Miss Naylor and the girls were sitting in the shade, reading La Fontaine’s fables.  Greta, with one eye on her governess, was stealthily cutting a pig out of orange peel.

“Ah! my dear dears!” began Herr Paul, who in the presence of Miss Naylor always paraded his English.  “Here is our friend, who has a very flattering request to make; he would paint you, yes—­both together, alfresco, in the air, in the sunshine, with the birds, the little birds!”

Greta, gazing at Harz, gushed deep pink, and furtively showed him her pig.

Christian said:  “Paint us?  Oh no!”

She saw Harz looking at her, and added, slowly:  “If you really wish it, I suppose we could!” then dropped her eyes.

“Ah!” said Herr Paul raising his brows till his glasses fell from his nose:  “And what says Gretchen?  Does she want to be handed up to posterities a little peacock along with the other little birds?”

Greta, who had continued staring at the painter, said:  “Of—­course —­I—­want—­to—­be.”

“Prrt!” said Herr Paul, looking at Miss Naylor.  The little lady indeed opened her mouth wide, but all that came forth was a tiny squeak, as sometimes happens when one is anxious to say something, and has not arranged beforehand what it shall be.

The affair seemed ended; Harz heaved a sigh of satisfaction.  But Herr Paul had still a card to play.

“There is your Aunt,” he said; “there are things to be considered—­one must certainly inquire—­so, we shall see.”  Kissing Greta loudly on both cheeks, he went towards the house.

“What makes you want to paint us?” Christian asked, as soon as he was gone.

“I think it very wrong,” Miss Naylor blurted out.

“Why?” said Harz, frowning.

“Greta is so young—­there are lessons—­it is such a waste of time!”