too much,"
loving his work so passionately that he could never tell exactly when
to stop. He hated to lay things aside, always thinking: "I can get it
better." Greta was finished, but with Christian, try as he would, he was
not satisfied; from day to day her face seemed to him to change, as if
her soul were growing.

There were things too in her eyes that he could neither read nor
reproduce.

Dawney would often stroll out to them after his daily visit, and lying
on the grass, his arms crossed behind his head, and a big cigar between
his lips, would gently banter everybody. Tea came at five o'clock, and
then Mrs. Decie appeared armed with a magazine or novel, for she was
proud of her literary knowledge. The sitting was suspended; Harz, with
a cigarette, would move between the table and the picture, drinking his
tea, putting a touch in here and there; he never sat down till it was
all over for the day. During these "rests" there was talk, usually
ending in discussion. Mrs. Decie was happiest in conversations of a
literary order, making frequent use of such expressions as: "After all,
it produces an illusion--does anything else matter?" "Rather a poseur,
is he not?" "A question, that, of temperament," or "A matter of the
definition of words"; and other charming generalities, which sound
well, and seem to go far, and are pleasingly irrefutable. Sometimes
the discussion turned on Art--on points of colour or technique; whether
realism was quite justified; and should we be pre-Raphaelites? When
these discussions started, Christian's eyes would grow bigger and
clearer, with a sort of shining reasonableness; as though they were
trying to see into the depths. And Harz would stare at them. But the
look in those eyes eluded him, as if they had no more meaning than Mrs.
Decie's, which, with their pale, watchful smile, always seemed saying:
"Come, let us take a little intellectual exercise."

Greta, pulling Scruff's ears, would gaze up at the speakers; when the
talk was over, she always shook herself. But if no one came to the
"sittings," there would sometimes be very earnest, quick talk, sometimes
long silences.

One day Christian said: "What is your religion?"

Harz finished the touch he was putting on the canvas, before he
answered: "Roman Catholic, I suppose; I was baptised in that Church."

"I didn't mean that. Do you believe in a future life?"

"Christian," murmured Greta, who was plaiting blades of grass, "shall
alway