a bit of rusty chain--relic of the time when the place had been a
store-loft; her eyes were hastily averted from an unfinished figure of
the nude.

Greta, with feet crossed, sat on a coloured blanket, dabbling her finger
in a little pool of coffee, and gazing up at Harz. And he thought: 'I
should like to paint her like that. "A forget-me-not."'

He took out his chalks to make a sketch of her.

"Shall you show me?" cried out Greta, scrambling to her feet.

"'Will,' Greta--'will'; how often must I tell you? I think we should be
going--it is very late--your father--so very kind of you, but I think
we should be going. Scruff!" Miss Naylor gave the floor two taps. The
terrier backed into a plaster cast which came down on his tail, and sent
him flying through the doorway. Greta followed swiftly, crying:

"Ach! poor Scrufee!"

Miss Naylor crossed the room; bowing, she murmured an apology, and also
disappeared.

Harz was left alone, his guests were gone; the little girl with the
fair hair and the eyes like forget-me-nots, the little lady with kindly
gestures and bird-like walk, the terrier. He looked round him; the room
seemed very empty. Gnawing his moustache, he muttered at the fallen
cast.

Then taking up his brush, stood before his picture, smiling and