Uncle Nic got up slowly, and stood in front of the picture. "When it's
for sale," he said at last, "I'll buy it."

Harz bowed; but for some reason he felt annoyed, as if he had been asked
to part with something personal.

"I thank you," he said. A gong sounded.

"You'll stay and have a snack with us?" said Mr. Treffry; "the doctor's
stopping." Gathering up his paper, he moved off to the house with
his hand on Greta's shoulder, the terrier running in front. Harz and
Christian were left alone. He was scraping his palette, and she was
sitting with her elbows resting on her knees; between them, a gleam of
sunlight dyed the path golden. It was evening already; the bushes and
the flowers, after the day's heat, were breathing out perfume; the birds
had started their evensong.

"Are you tired of sitting for your portrait, Fraulein Christian?"

Christian shook her head.

"I shall get something into it that everybody does not see--something
behind the surface, that will last."

Christian said slowly: "That's like a challenge. You were right when you
said fighting is happiness--for yourself, but not for me. I'm a coward.
I hate to hurt people, I like them to like me. If you had to do anything
that would make them hate you, you would do it all the same, if
it helped your work; that's fine--it's what I can't do. It's--it's
everything. Do you like Uncle Nic?"