Villa Rubein and Other Stories | Page 8

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."
"It isn't worth looking at, but--if you wish--"
He put the two halves of the sketch together.
"You see!" she said at last; "I told you."
Harz did not answer, still looking at the sketch. The girl frowned.
Harz asked her suddenly:
"Why do you paint?"
She coloured, and said:
"Show me what is wrong."
"I cannot show you what is wrong, there is nothing wrong--but why do you paint?"
"I don't understand."
Harz shrugged his shoulders.
"You've no business to do that," said the girl in a hurt voice; "I want to know."
"Your heart is not in it," said Harz.
She looked at him, startled; her eyes had grown thoughtful.
"I suppose that is it. There are so many other things--"
"There should be nothing else," said Harz.
She broke in: "I don't want always to be thinking of myself. Suppose--"
"Ah! When you begin supposing!"
The girl confronted him; she had torn the sketch again.
"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?"
"Oh no! we do not mind; then we shall none of us wash, and afterwards I shall show you my rabbits."
Miss Naylor, moving from foot to foot, like a bird on its perch, exclaimed:
"I hope you won't regret it, not a very good meal--the girls are so impulsive--such informal invitation; we shall be very glad."
But Greta pulled softly at her sister's sleeve, and Christian, gathering her things, led the way.
Harz followed in amazement; nothing of this kind had come into his life before. He kept shyly glancing at the girls; and, noting the speculative innocence in Greta's eyes, he smiled. They soon came to two great poplar-trees, which stood, like sentinels, one on either side of an unweeded gravel walk leading through lilac bushes to a house painted dull pink, with green-shuttered windows, and a roof of greenish slate. Over the door in faded crimson letters were written the words, "Villa Rubein."
"That is to the stables," said Greta, pointing down a path, where some pigeons were sunning themselves on a wall. "Uncle Nic keeps his horses there: Countess and Cuckoo--his horses begin with C, because of Chris--they are quite beautiful. He says he could drive them to Kingdom-Come and they would not turn their hair. Bow, and say 'Good- morning' to our house!"
Harz bowed.
"Father said all strangers should, and I think it brings good luck." >From the doorstep she looked round at Harz, then ran into the house.
A broad, thick-set man, with stiff, brushed-up hair, a short, brown, bushy beard parted at the chin, a fresh complexion, and blue glasses across a thick nose, came out, and called in a bluff voice:
"Ha! my good dears, kiss me quick--prrt! How goes it then this morning? A good walk, hein?" The sound of many loud rapid kisses followed.
"Ha, Fraulein, good!" He became aware of Harz's figure standing in the doorway: "Und der Herr?"
Miss Naylor hurriedly explained.
"Good! An artist! Kommen Sie herein, I am delight. You will breakfast? I too--yes, yes, my dears--I too breakfast with you this morning. I have the hunter's appetite."
Harz, looking at him keenly, perceived him to be of middle height and age, stout, dressed in a loose holland jacket, a very white, starched shirt, and blue silk sash; that he looked particularly clean, had an air of belonging to Society, and exhaled a really fine aroma of excellent cigars and the best hairdresser's essences.
The room they entered was long and rather bare; there was a huge map on the wall, and below it a pair of globes on crooked supports, resembling two inflated frogs erect