“Then, you’re higher than him,” retorted his wife, “so why shouldn’t you mix with any nobs as he gets round him?” Ricardo looked up in amazement. “_I_ am higher than Von Steinberg? What do you mean?” he said. “Why! ain’t you a Markiss?” reiterated Hannah, still sturdily regarding him from over the broom; “the Markiss of Sorrento? If you’re bigger than the Doctor, why should you mind going among ’is friends? Money don’t count beside name. I’ve often ’eard you say that to me.” “But who--_who_--” said the Professor, stammering, “ever told you anything about my having a title? Has Steinberg betrayed my trust? You have never known me, except as Professor Ricardo! What do you mean by all this talk about a Marquis?” Hannah looked as if she had been suddenly struck foolish. The light faded out of her flat, unmeaning face--she seemed as if she were scared at what she had been led into saying. “I don’t know, I’m sure,” she replied, with a quivering lip, as if she were about to cry, “unless I dreamt it! Some one must ’ave told it me. Markiss dee Sorrento! Yes! that’s it! Markiss dee Sorrento! There’s a woice repeating it in my ears now! And--and--_the proof of it_ is in that drawer,” she continued rapidly, as she slapped her hand down upon a small writing-table where the Professor kept his private papers. Now the title deeds of the marquisate and lands of Sorrento were still in the Professor’s possession, lest a change of dynasty might restore his family rights to him. But he always kept them in a small iron safe under his bed. He had destroyed every other trace of the rank and position he had once held amongst men, and felt certain that nothing could be found in his desk to betray them. So he answered, somewhat pettishly, “These voices in your ears, Hannah, are not telling you the truth! You had much better go and attend to your household duties, and leave off talking rubbish!” But at these words Hannah turned a face upon him, which he could hardly recognise as her own. Her usually dull eyes were blazing with passion--and her tones were loud and authoritative, as she exclaimed, “It is _you_ who are not telling the truth! The proofs of what I say are in that drawer, and I will not leave the room until you open it!” The Professor was really frightened. He felt confident that nothing was in the drawer that could identify his name and title, so, more to pacify her and restore peace between them than to prove his word, he drew forth his bunch of keys, and inserting one in the keyhole, pulled the drawer open. It apparently contained nothing but odd sheets of writing paper, and a few old letters. “Now! are you satisfied that you are wrong?” he said, turning to his wife.