'd rather carry it," said Christian.

They had not gone far along the road, however, before the others passed
them in a carriage, and at the strange sight Miss Naylor could be seen
pursing her lips; Cousin Teresa nodding pleasantly; a smile on Dawney's
face; and beside him Greta, very demure. Harz began to laugh.

"What are you laughing at?" asked Christian.

"You English are so funny. You mustn't do this here, you mustn't do that
there, it's like sitting in a field of nettles. If I were to walk with
you without my coat, that little lady would fall off her seat." His
laugh infected Christian; they reached the station feeling that they
knew each other better.

The sun had dipped behind the mountains when the little train steamed
down the valley. All were subdued, and Greta, with a nodding head, slept
fitfully. Christian, in her corner, was looking out of the window, and
Harz kept studying her profile.

He tried to see her eyes. He had remarked indeed that, whatever their
expression, the brows, arched and rather wide apart, gave them a
peculiar look of understanding. He thought of his picture. There was
nothing in her face to seize on, it was too sympathetic, too much like
light. Yet her chin was firm, almost obstinate.

The train stopped with a jerk; she looked round at him. It was as though
she had said: "You are my friend."

At Villa Rubein, Herr Paul had killed the fatted calf for Greta's Fest.
When the whole party were assembled, he alone remained standing; and
waving his arm above the cloth, cried: "My dears! Your happiness! There
are good things here--Come!" And with a sly look, the air of a conjurer
producing rabbits, he whipped the cover off the soup tureen:

"Soup-turtle, fat, green fat!" He smacked his lips.

No servants were allowed, because, as Greta said to Harz:

"It is that we are to be glad this evening."

Geniality radiated from Herr Paul's countenance, mellow as a bowl of
wine. He toasted everybody, exhorting them to pleasure.

Harz passed a cracker secretly behind Greta's head, and Miss Naylor,
moved by a mysterious impulse, pulled it with a sort of gleeful horror;
it exploded, and Greta sprang off her chair. Scruff, seeing this,
appeared suddenly on the sideboard with his forelegs in a plate of soup;
without moving them, he turned his head, and appeared to accuse
the company of his false position. It was the signal for shrieks of
laughter. Scruff made no attempt to free his forelegs; but