for something, nothing at peace.

Villa Rubein withstood the influence of the day, and wore its usual
look of rest and isolation. Harz sent in his card, and asked to see "der
Herr." The servant, a grey-eyed, clever-looking Swiss with no hair on
his face, came back saying:

"Der Herr, mein Herr, is in the Garden gone." Harz followed him.

Herr Paul, a small white flannel cap on his head, gloves on his hands,
and glasses on his nose, was watering a rosebush, and humming the
serenade from Faust.

This aspect of the house was very different from the other. The sun fell
on it, and over a veranda creepers clung and scrambled in long scrolls.
There was a lawn, with freshly mown grass; flower-beds were laid out,
and at the end of an avenue of young acacias stood an arbour covered
with wisteria.

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."