The young painter looked towards the house, where under the veranda old
Nicholas Treffry was still in sight; a smile came on his lips.

"If I were the finest painter in the world, he wouldn't think anything
of me for it, I'm afraid; but if I could show him handfuls of big
cheques for bad pictures I had painted, he would respect me."

She smiled, and said: "I love him."

"Then I shall like him," Harz answered simply.

She put her hand out, and her fingers met his. "We shall be late," she
said, glowing, and catching up her book: "I'm always late!"




VII

There was one other guest at dinner, a well-groomed person with pale,
fattish face, dark eyes, and hair thin on the temples, whose clothes had
a military cut. He looked like a man fond of ease, who had gone out of
his groove, and collided with life. Herr Paul introduced him as Count
Mario Sarelli.

Two hanging lamps with crimson shades threw a rosy light over the table,
where, in the centre stood a silver basket, full of irises. Through the
open windows the garden was all clusters of black foliage in the dying
light. Moths fluttered round the lamps; Greta, following them with her