“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.