n one of her talking moods--bit of a humbug,
Chris, between ourselves; eh, isn't she?" His eyes twinkled.

Christian smiled. There was a curious happy restlessness in her that
would not let her keep still.

"Picture finished?" Mr. Treffry asked suddenly, taking up the paper with
a crackle. "Don't go and fall in love with the painter, Chris."

Christian was still enough now.

'Why not?' she thought. 'What should you know about him? Isn't he good
enough for me?' A gong sounded.

"There's your dinner," Mr. Treffry remarked.

With sudden contrition she bent and kissed him.

But when she had left the room Mr. Treffry put down the Times and stared
at the door, humming to himself, and thoughtfully fingering his chin.

Christian could not eat; she sat, indifferent to the hoverings of
Dominique, tormented by uneasy fear and longings. She answered Mrs.
Decie at random. Greta kept stealing looks at her from under her lashes.

"Decided characters are charming, don't you think so, Christian?" Mrs.
Decie said, thrusting her chin a little forward, and modelling the
words. "That is why I like Mr. Harz so much; such an immense advantage
for a man to know his mind. You have only to look at that young man to
see that he knows what he wants, and means to have it."

Christian pushed her plate away. Greta, flushing, said abruptly: "Doctor
Edmund is not a decided character, I think. This afternoon he said:
'Shall I have some beer-yes, I shall--no, I shall not'; then he ordered
the beer, so, when it came, he gave it to the soldiers."

Mrs. Decie turned her enigmatic smile from one girl to the other.

When dinner was over they went into her room. Greta stole at once to
the piano, where her long hair fell almost to the keys; silently she sat
there fingering the notes, smiling to herself, and looking at her aunt,
who was reading Pater's essays. Christian too had taken up a book, but
soon put it down--of several pages she had not understood a word. She
went into the garden and wandered about the lawn, clasping her hands
behind her head. The air was heavy; very distant thunder trembled among
the mountains, flashes of summer lightning played over the trees; and
two great moths were hovering about a rosebush. Christian watched
their soft uncertain rushes. Going to the little summer-house she flung
herself down on a seat, and pressed her hands to her heart.

There was a strange and sudden aching there. Was he going from her? If
so, what