“But the pursuit of which holds the only consolation this world can afford me,” replied Ricardo. “Wait till you have heard what I have to tell you, Steinberg, and you will acknowledge that I am right. First, then, as to my identity. My name is not Ricardo. I am Paolo, Marchese di Sorrento, the last member of one of the oldest families in Italy.” “A nobleman!” cried Steinberg, “and in this humble position? For what reason? What brought you down so low, as to be compelled to work for your daily bread?” “A political offence, my friend, and not of my own doing! A plot against the Government, in which several nobles were concerned, and being the intimate friend and associate of most of them, my name became unfortunately mixed up with theirs, and I found my property and estates confiscated, and myself banished from Italy, before I hardly knew what it was all about. It was a great misfortune, but many have suffered in the same way. I came to England as the only land in which I could make a little money by teaching my native language, and I have managed to exist since and have found several pupils in noble families, as you well know. But my father’s name--the title that had been handed down and honoured through so many generations--I could not retain that! It would have been an infamy--a degradation!” “No wonder that you have aged before your time--that you are of so melancholy a temperament,” observed Steinberg. “Your misfortunes have been sufficient to kill you.” “Ah! do not mistake me, my good friend! This reverse, however cruel, could not have had the power to sap my life-strings in this manner. There was worse behind it--so much worse that the blow of losing my name and money fell almost scatheless upon me! I had already lost my world.” Steinberg remained silent, waiting for him to proceed.