‘How painful, and horrid, and unpleasant it all is!’ said Minna to herself when she was alone in her own sitting-room; ‘and what is the meaning of it all?... I thank my God that my mother was not like that woman,’ she suddenly whispered to herself, clasping her hands involuntarily; and she was surprised to find herself stamping her foot on the floor, and choking down a sob. Just then there was a tap on her door. Not wishful to admit anyone and everyone, she advanced to it and opened it. Hans Riemann stood there. ‘I got hold of that old print you wanted, Minna, yesterday, and I’ve come to show it you. The man actually let me bring it here for you to look at. He wants a lot for it, of course, but you may----’ ‘Come in,’ she said, opening the door to admit him, and she turned the light up while he went to a table, unrolled the print and spread it before her. ‘It is beautiful,’ said she, forgetting everything else for the moment, as she bent over it and examined it. ‘Of course he will want a lot for it. How much may he ask?’ ‘Two hundred lire.’ ‘Oh, it is too much. I can’t afford it. Take it away, and don’t let me look at it any more.’ She pushed it away from her, and Hans laughed. ‘We shall get it for less, of course. You ought to have it for about half. We’ll offer him seventy-five. Would you give a hundred?’ ‘Yes, a hundred, but not one centesimo more.... Oh Hans, sit down! My curiosity is on fire. Who and what is the awful creature who is taking the signora and her daughter to the opera to-night?’ ‘Oh! you may well ask,’ said Hans shrugging his shoulders. ‘Signor Marchmont--isn’t he a horror? “The skeleton,” I call him. It is a shame too, the way that woman chucks the girl at him! There’s no decency in it. Signora Dietrich is not a nice woman, as I think I have mentioned before.’ ‘You said so--yes; and I can see it for myself. But what is he? Surely not an Englishman--nor yet an American.’ ‘Oh Lord no! By all the rules of sensation novels, he ought to be a Russian prince who has ruined himself in Paris with absinthe and the other attractions of that capital. But he isn’t--he’s an Australian.’ ‘An Australian?’ ‘Yes. Father died when he was a mere child, leaving an enormous fortune, amassed chiefly by the sale of drink at various bars and canteens in town and country. This accumulated till he was one-and-twenty, of course, and grew into something fabulous. Then he was free, and then he began to use his freedom. He has led a life of _grand train_ ever since, and he must be at least five-and-thirty now. Sometimes he looks like a mummy five thousand years old.’ ‘And has his fortune lasted all that time?’