‘There’s a bit of everything that’s nasty and contemptible,’ said Hans, rising to go. ‘It’s no good thinking about it. People have got to settle their own affairs. They must fight it out amongst themselves. Good-night, Minna. You look tired. I’ll offer him seventy-five, then, and I may go up to a hundred; is that it?’ ‘Yes, please; thank you for saving me the trouble.’ ‘Oh, it’s a pleasure!’ said Hans, going away. CHAPTER VIII. Hans Riemann had advised Minna not to ‘bother herself’ about the drama which was going on in the house, but she thought about it a great deal. She had been greatly attracted by Fulvia Dietrich, and there was something, too, in the anomalous, unhappy position of Signor Giuseppe with regard to the girl which wrung her heart. She was destined soon to know more of the affair. She went to her studio on the morning after her conversation with Hans, without having seen anyone belonging to the house. She did not come in to lunch, but returned early in the afternoon with the intention of writing some letters before dinner. As she went to her rooms her eye fell upon the two canary birds in their cage, and it struck her that it was not a particularly good position for the little creatures to be in. The cage stood on the broad ledge of a window high up in the wall of the corridor, which was cold and draughty. It was, moreover, a window which never got any sun, and was altogether a cheerless place. A chair which had always stood just under the window had now been removed to some little distance from it, doubtless to make the birds safe from any attempts on the part of Gatto, the cat, an important personage in an Italian house, to make nearer acquaintance with them. Yesterday and this morning Minna had noticed that they twittered cheerfully, but this afternoon they were quite silent and sad. She could just see them sitting each on a separate perch, dejected-looking, little yellow balls, without a chirp to offer between them. Something was wrong. It was the work of a moment to move the chair under the window again, spring upon it, and look into the cage. ‘Poor little things! you may well be silent,’ she said aloud. Their little water-pots were empty, there was neither seed nor greenstuff of any kind in the cage, which from all appearances had been cleared of food and water for some time. ‘Water you shall certainly have,’ said Minna, ‘and I’ll try if I can’t get you some food too.’ She chirped to them and they moved uneasily. She looked round to calculate where to step when she should have the cage in her hands, and beheld Fulvia Dietrich standing there with green leaves and a little tin of sand. ‘Ah, good-day, signorina!’ said Minna, with all the cordiality she could put into her voice. ‘Pray excuse my taking this liberty. I thought they were so very silent that----’