“I don’t know—­I really do not know—­” began Miss Naylor; “he has very—­high—­boots,” but Greta was already on her way, with hands clasped behind her, and demure eyes taking in the stranger’s figure.

“Please?” she said, when she was close to him.

The stranger took his cap off with a jerk.

“This house has no bells,” he said in a nasal voice; “it has a tendency to discourage one.”

“Yes,” said Greta gravely, “there is a bell, but it does not ring now, because my uncle is so ill.”

“I am very sorry to hear that.  I don’t know the people here, but I am very sorry to hear that.

“I would be glad to speak a few words to your sister, if it is your sister that I want.”

And the stranger’s face grew very red.

“Is it,” said Greta, “that you are a friend of Herr Harz?  If you are a friend of his, you will please come and have some tea, and while you are having tea I will look for Chris.”

Perspiration bedewed the stranger’s forehead.

“Tea?  Excuse me!  I don’t drink tea.”

“There is also coffee,” Greta said.

The stranger’s progress towards the arbour was so slow that Greta arrived considerably before him.

“It is a friend of Herr Harz,” she whispered; “he will drink coffee.  I am going to find Chris.”

“Greta!” gasped Miss Naylor.

Mrs. Decie put up her hand.

“Ah!” she said, “if it is so, we must be very nice to him for Christian’s sake.”

Miss Naylor’s face grew soft.

“Ah, yes!” she said; “of course.”

“Bah!” muttered Herr Paul, “that recommences.’

“Paul!” murmured Mrs. Decie, “you lack the elements of wisdom.”

Herr Paul glared at the approaching stranger.

Mrs. Decie had risen, and smilingly held out her hand.

“We are so glad to know you; you are an artist too, perhaps?  I take a great interest in art, and especially in that school which Mr. Harz represents.”

The stranger smiled.

“He is the genuine article, ma’am,” he said.  “He represents no school, he is one of that kind whose corpses make schools.”

“Ah!” murmured Mrs. Decie, “you are an American.  That is so nice.  Do sit down!  My niece will soon be here.”

Greta came running back.

“Will you come, please?” she said.  “Chris is ready.”

Gulping down his coffee, the stranger included them all in a single bow, and followed her.

“Ach!” said Herr Paul, “garcon tres chic, celui-la!”

Christian was standing by her little table.  The stranger began.

“I am sending Mr. Harz’s things to England; there are some pictures here.  He would be glad to have them.”

A flood of crimson swept over her face.

“I am sending them to London,” the stranger repeated; “perhaps you could give them to me to-day.”

“They are ready; my sister will show you.”