'Ah, don't speak of that,' said Mrs. Capadose. 'It reminds me of something so distressing.' 'I hope you don't mean when _you_ used to sit to me--though that may well have bored you.' 'It's not what you did--it's what we have done. It's a confession I must make--it's a weight on my mind! I mean about that beautiful picture you gave me--it used to be so much admired. When you come to see me in London (I count on your doing that very soon) I shall see you looking all round. I can't tell you I keep it in my own room because I love it so, for the simple reason----' And she paused a moment. 'Because you can't tell wicked lies,' said Lyon. 'No, I can't. So before you ask for it----' 'Oh, I know you parted with it--the blow has already fallen,' Lyon interrupted. 'Ah then, you have heard? I was sure you would! But do you know what we got for it? Two hundred pounds.' 'You might have got much more,' said Lyon, smiling. 'That seemed a great deal at the time. We were in want of the money--it was a good while ago, when we first married. Our means were very small then, but fortunately that has changed rather for the better. We had the chance; it really seemed a big sum, and I am afraid we jumped at it. My husband had expectations which have partly come into effect, so that now we do well enough. But meanwhile the picture went.' 'Fortunately the original remained. But do you mean that two hundred was the value of the vase?' Lyon asked. 'Of the vase?' 'The beautiful old Indian vase--the Grand Duke's offering.' 'The Grand Duke?' 'What's his name?--Silberstadt-Schreckenstein. Your husband mentioned the transaction.' 'Oh, my husband,' said Mrs. Capadose; and Lyon saw that she coloured a little. Not to add to her embarrassment, but to clear up the ambiguity, which he perceived the next moment he had better have left alone, he went on: 'He tells me it's now in his collection.'