“You mean that if it does not matter enough, one had better not do it at all. I don't know if you are right—I think you are.”
There was the sound of a nervous cough, and Harz saw behind him his three visitors—Miss Naylor offering him her hand; Greta, flushed, with a bunch of wild flowers, staring intently in his face; and the terrier, sniffing at his trousers.
Miss Naylor broke an awkward silence.
“We wondered if you would still be here, Christian. I am sorry to interrupt you—I was not aware that you knew Mr. Herr—”
“Harz is my name—we were just talking”
“About my sketch. Oh, Greta, you do tickle! Will you come and have breakfast with us to-day, Herr Harz? It's our turn, you know.”
Harz, glancing at his dusty clothes, excused himself.
But Greta in a pleading voice said: “Oh! do come! Scruff likes you. It is so dull when there is nobody for breakfast but ourselves.”
Miss Naylor's mouth began to twist. Harz hurriedly broke in:
“Thank you. I will come with pleasure; you don't mind my being dirty?”