His eyes filled with tears, and drawing a penknife from his pocket, he began to stab it into the stuffing of his chair.  Scruff, who sat watching the chink of light under the door, turned his head, blinked at him, and began feebly tapping with a claw.

It was intolerable, this uncertainty—­to be near, and yet so far, was not endurable!

Herr Paul stepped across the room.  The dog, following, threw his black-marked muzzle upwards with a gruff noise, and went back to the door.  His master was holding in his hand a bottle of champagne.

Poor Nicholas!  He had chosen it.  Herr Paul drained a glass.

Poor Nicholas!  The prince of fellows, and of what use was one?  They kept him away from Nicholas!

Herr Paul’s eyes fell on the terrier.  “Ach! my dear,” he said, “you and I, we alone are kept away!”

He drained a second glass.

What was it?  This life!  Froth-like that!  He tossed off a third glass. 
Forget!  If one could not help, it was better to forget!

He put on his hat.  Yes.  There was no room for him there!  He was not wanted!

He finished the bottle, and went out into the passage.  Scruff ran and lay down at Mr. Treffry’s door.  Herr Paul looked at him.  “Ach!” he said, tapping his chest, “ungrateful hound!” And opening the front door he went out on tiptoe....

Late that afternoon Greta stole hatless through the lilac bushes; she looked tired after her night journey, and sat idly on a chair in the speckled shadow of a lime-tree.

‘It is not like home,’ she thought; ’I am unhappy.  Even the birds are silent, but perhaps that is because it is so hot.  I have never been sad like this—­for it is not fancy that I am sad this time, as it is sometimes.  It is in my heart like the sound the wind makes through a wood, it feels quite empty in my heart.  If it is always like this to be unhappy, then I am sorry for all the unhappy things in the world; I am sorrier than I ever was before.’

A shadow fell on the grass, she raised her eyes, and saw Dawney.

“Dr. Edmund!” she whispered.

Dawney turned to her; a heavy furrow showed between his brows.  His eyes, always rather close together, stared painfully.

“Dr. Edmund,” Greta whispered, “is it true?”

He took her hand, and spread his own palm over it.

“Perhaps,” he said; “perhaps not.  We must hope.”

Greta looked up, awed.

“They say he is dying.”

“We have sent for the best man in Vienna.”

Greta shook her head.

“But you are clever, Dr. Edmund; and you are afraid.”

“He is brave,” said Dawney; “we must all be brave, you know.  You too!”

“Brave?” repeated Greta; “what is it to be brave?  If it is not to cry and make a fuss—­that I can do.  But if it is not to be sad in here,” she touched her breast, “that I cannot do, and it shall not be any good for me to try.”