"Come in, you don't want breakfast yet. I'm going to paint the river
to-day."

He ran up the bare broad stairs, and Dawney followed leisurely, his
thumbs hooked in the armholes of his waistcoat, and his head thrown
back.

In the attic which filled the whole top story, Harz had pulled a canvas
to the window. He was a young man of middle height, square shouldered,
active, with an angular face, high cheek-bones, and a strong, sharp
chin. His eyes were piercing and steel-blue, his eyebrows very flexible,
nose long and thin with a high bridge; and his dark, unparted hair
fitted him like a cap. His clothes looked as if he never gave them a
second thought.

This room, which served for studio, bedroom, and sitting-room, was bare
and dusty. Below the window the river in spring flood rushed down the
valley, a stream, of molten bronze. Harz dodged before the canvas like a
fencer finding his distance; Dawney took his seat on a packingcase.

"The snows have gone with a rush this year," he drawled. "The Talfer
comes down brown, the Eisack comes down blue; they flow into the Etsch
and make it green; a parable of the Spring for you, my painter."

Harz mixed his colours.

"I've no time for parables," he said, "no time for anything. If I could
be guaranteed to live to ninety-nine, like Titian--he had a chance. Look
at that poor fellow who was killed the other day! All that struggle, and