For weeks beforehand, they had discussed this plan. Some of their own treasures, of course, would have to be sacrificed; in fact, Claudina carried many little grey night-caps away with her in the wooden box--night-caps that no longer had Dresden heads to fit them. But the money they were going to make out of the Treasure Shop would make up for all these heart-rending sacrifices. They would even be able to send John little presents now and then. There was nothing like a curio-shop for minting money, especially if the curios were really genuine, as were theirs. But that was the very rub of it. When he came to open the shop, the old gentleman found it was the very genuineness of the things he had to sell that made it impossible for him to part with them. He loved them too well. And even the most ignorant collectors, British sires with check-cloth caps and heavy ulsters, old ladies with guide books in one hand and cornucopias of maze for the pigeons in the other, even they seemed to pitch upon the very things he loved the most. He asked exorbitant prices to try and save his treasures from their clutches and mostly this method succeeded; but sometimes they were fools enough to put the money down. For there was one thing he could never do; he could not belittle the thing that he loved. If it was good, if it was genuine, if it really was old, he had to say so despite himself. Enthusiasm would let him do no otherwise. But then, when he had said all he could in its praise, he would ask so immense a sum that the majority of would-be purchasers left the shop as if he had insulted them. So it was that the Treasure Shop did not fulfil all the expectations they had had of it. It made just enough money for their wants; but that was all. And now came the question as to whether they should let John know of it. Long into the night they discussed the question, their two white heads lying side by side on the pillows, their voices whispering in the darkness. "And yet--I believe he would understand," said the little old lady on her side--"he’s such a dear, good boy, I’m sure he would understand." "I don’t know--I don’t know," replied the old gentleman dubiously--"It will be bad enough when he sees my last pictures. No--no--I don’t think I’ll tell him. Foscari can look after the place. I need hardly be there at all while he’s with us." And then, making the sign of the cross upon each other’s foreheads--saying--"God bless you"--as they had done every night their whole lives long, they fell asleep. CHAPTER XXVI THE RETURN--VENICE