“Ah!” put in Harz, “if they would teach me to draw better, or to see a new colour in a flower, or an expression in a face, I would read them all.”

Christian leaned forward:  “It must be right to get as near truth as possible; every step gained is something.  You believe in truth; truth is the same as beauty—­that was what you said—­you try to paint the truth, you always see the beauty.  But how can we know truth, unless we know what is at the root of it?”

“I—­think,” murmured Greta, sotto voce, “you see one way—­and he sees another—­because—­you are not one person.”

“Of course!” said Christian impatiently, “but why—­”

A sound of humming interrupted her.

Nicholas Treffry was coming from the house, holding the Times in one hand, and a huge meerschaum pipe in the other.

“Aha!” he said to Harz:  “how goes the picture?” and he lowered himself into a chair.

“Better to-day, Uncle?” said Christian softly.

Mr. Treffry growled.  “Confounded humbugs, doctors!” he said.  “Your father used to swear by them; why, his doctor killed him—­made him drink such a lot of stuff!”

“Why then do you have a doctor, Uncle Nic?” asked Greta.

Mr. Treffry looked at her; his eyes twinkled.  “I don’t know, my dear.  If they get half a chance, they won’t let go of you!”

There had been a gentle breeze all day, but now it had died away; not a leaf quivered, not a blade of grass was stirring; from the house were heard faint sounds as of some one playing on a pipe.  A blackbird came hopping down the path.

“When you were a boy, did you go after birds’ nests, Uncle Nic?” Greta whispered.

“I believe you, Greta.”  The blackbird hopped into the shrubbery.

“You frightened him, Uncle Nic!  Papa says that at Schloss Konig, where he lived when he was young, he would always be after jackdaws’ nests.”

“Gammon, Greta.  Your father never took a jackdaw’s nest, his legs are much too round!”

“Are you fond of birds, Uncle Nic?”

“Ask me another, Greta!  Well, I s’pose so.”

“Then why did you go bird-nesting?  I think it is cruel”

Mr. Treffry coughed behind his paper:  “There you have me, Greta,” he remarked.

Harz began to gather his brushes:  “Thank you,” he said, “that’s all I can do to-day.”

“Can I look?” Mr. Treffry inquired.

“Certainly!”

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.