frowning. Soon he had forgotten it all in his work.




II

It was early morning four days later, and Harz was loitering homewards.
The shadows of the clouds passing across the vines were vanishing over
the jumbled roofs and green-topped spires of the town. A strong sweet
wind was blowing from the mountains, there was a stir in the branches
of the trees, and flakes of the late blossom were drifting down. Amongst
the soft green pods of a kind of poplar chafers buzzed, and numbers of
their little brown bodies were strewn on the path.

He passed a bench where a girl sat sketching. A puff of wind whirled her
drawing to the ground; Harz ran to pick it up. She took it from him with
a bow; but, as he turned away, she tore the sketch across.

"Ah!" he said; "why did you do that?"

This girl, who stood with a bit of the torn sketch in either hand, was
slight and straight; and her face earnest and serene. She gazed at Harz
with large, clear, greenish eyes; her lips and chin were defiant, her
forehead tranquil.

"I don't like it."

"Will you let me look at it? I am a painter."