“Why did you come here, when it’s so dangerous?”

“I had been working too hard, I wanted to see my country—­after seven years, and when it’s forbidden!  But I’m ready to go back now.”  He looked down at her, frowning.

“Had you a hard time in London, too?”

“Harder, at first—­I couldn’t speak the language.  In my profession it’s hard work to get recognised, it’s hard work to make a living.  There are too many whose interest it is to keep you down—­I shan’t forget them.”

“But every one is not like that?”

“No; there are fine fellows, too.  I shan’t forget them either.  I can sell my pictures now; I’m no longer weak, and I promise you I shan’t forget.  If in the future I have power, and I shall have power—­I shan’t forget.”

A shower of fine gravel came rattling on the wall.  Dawney was standing below them with an amused expression on his upturned face.

“Are you going to stay there all night?” he asked.  “Greta and I have bored each other.”

“We’re coming,” called Christian hastily.

On the way back neither spoke a word, but when they reached the Villa, Harz took her hand, and said:  “Fraulein Christian, I can’t do any more with your picture.  I shan’t touch it again after this.”

She made no answer, but they looked at each other, and both seemed to ask, to entreat, something more; then her eyes fell.  He dropped her hand, and saying, “Good-night,” ran after Dawney.

In the corridor, Dominique, carrying a dish of fruit, met the sisters; he informed them that Miss Naylor had retired to bed; that Herr Paul would not be home to dinner; his master was dining in his room; dinner would be served for Mrs. Decie and the two young ladies in a quarter of an hour:  “And the fish is good to-night; little trouts! try them, Signorina!” He moved on quickly, softly, like a cat, the tails of his dress-coat flapping, and the heels of his white socks gleaming.

Christian ran upstairs.  She flew about her room, feeling that if she once stood still it would all crystallise in hard painful thought, which motion alone kept away.  She washed, changed her dress and shoes, and ran down to her uncle’s room.  Mr. Treffry had just finished dinner, pushed the little table back, and was sitting in his chair, with his glasses on his nose, reading the Tines.  Christian touched his forehead with her lips.

“Glad to see you, Chris. Your stepfather’s out to dinner, and I can’t stand your aunt when she’s in one of her talking moods—­bit of a humbug, Chris, between ourselves; eh, isn’t she?” His eyes twinkled.

Christian smiled.  There was a curious happy restlessness in her that would not let her keep still.

“Picture finished?” Mr. Treffry asked suddenly, taking up the paper with a crackle.  “Don’t go and fall in love with the painter, Chris.”

Christian was still enough now.

‘Why not?’ she thought.  ’What should you know about him?  Isn’t he good enough for me?’ A gong sounded.