“Who’s that coming?” Nini asked anxiously, as she instinctively laid a hand on her bosom to restrain the excited beating of her heart. But Moche reassured her: “It’s nine o’clock,” he said. “No doubt it’s a client who has an appointment. Hide yourself; I’m going to take him into the salon; then you’ll cut your stick while I’m receiving him.” Moche was right; on opening the door he found himself face to face with the young Englishman, Mr. Ascott, whose abusive letter he had been reading half an hour before. Moche with the supple servility that belonged to his mean, cautious nature, was lavish in bowings and scrapings, bending to the ground before the wealthy foreigner, while the latter, with an icy dignity, barely acknowledged his creditor’s courtesies with a curt nod: “If milord will condescend to step into my reception room?...” suggested M. Moche ... Ascott obeyed mechanically, but disclaimed the rank his host had given him. “I am not Lord Ascott, Monsieur Moche; I am plain Mr. Ascott; the title of lord belongs to my honoured father.” “Ho, ho!” suggested the old man with a tactless grin, “a father—a father may die one fine day, and if I’m not mistaken, the sons inherit both the money and all the privileges and prerogatives.” The young man shrugged his shoulders: “I forbid you to speak of my honoured father, sir; and besides that, you must know that in no case shall I bear the title; I am a younger son of the family, my older brother will be My Lord.” But Moche was incorrigible and went on to insinuate: “The elder brother no doubt ... but suppose he should happen to die, too.” Ascott stamped his foot angrily and cast a furious look at the old money-lender. “That is enough, sir,” he declared in an indignant voice quivering with restrained anger, “that is enough! let us settle up our accounts; that done, we will break off all relations.” But Moche was for slipping away: “Forgive me, dear sir, noble gentleman, honourable signor, if I trouble you to wait a few moments, but there is a lady in my office, a very important client; I must conclude my business with her. By your leave ...” Moche, with another low bow, awaited the reply. “Get done, and be quick about it!” was the rough answer. The old brigand went back immediately to the office, where Nini was still waiting; she had never budged. Moche approached her with an air of triumph, calling softly: “Come here, little girl!” and on her obeying, drew her to the window, setting her with her face to the full light. With his coarse, hairy hands the old usurer lifted the child’s touzled locks, parted them on her forehead and imprisoned the tangled curls in his palm. Nini let him do as he liked, puzzled and uncomprehending. “D’you know,” declared the old man, “d’you know, with your hair down like a little girlie, you look ever so young.” “But,” protested Nini, “I’m not old; I’m barely sixteen and a half.”