Beatrice, ever sparing of words with crabbed age, nodded and entered the counting-house, glancing comprehensively around to take in her surroundings--as a woman always does--with a single look. The space naturally was limited. All the windows had been boarded up save one, which opened immediately over a rather large desk of mahogany which was piled with papers. The walls were hung with faded red rep. In one corner stood a large green-painted safe; in another stood a pile of tin boxes which reached quite to the roof. A paraffin lamp dangled by brass chains from a somewhat smoky ceiling; and at the far end of the carriage, in front of a dilapidated bookcase, was an oil stove, crudely set on a sheet of galvanised tin. A ragged carpet, disorderly in colour and much faded, covered the floor; and there were only two chairs, one before the desk, and another beside it, probably for the use of clients. The one window was barred, but not covered with any curtain; the others were sheathed in iron and barred strongly outside. From without, as has been said, the carriage looked like a dungeon: within, its appearance suggested the home of a recluse, who cared very little for the pomps and vanities of civilisation. This barren room represented very fairly the bare mind of the miser, who cared more for money itself, than for what money could do. Motioning Beatrice to the client's chair, Alpenny seated himself before his desk, and from habit presumably, began to fiddle with some legal looking documents. Apparently he had got over the shock caused by Vivian's strange speech, and looked much the same as he always did--cold, unsympathetic, and cunning as an old monkey. In the dungeon Beatrice bloomed like a rose, while Alpenny resembled a cold, clammy toad, uncanny and repulsive. He began to speak almost immediately, and his first words amazed the girl. They were the last she expected to hear from the lips of one who had always treated her with indifference, and almost with hostility. "Have you ever thought of marriage?" asked the usurer, examining his visitor's face with two small sharp eyes, chilly and grey. "Marriage!" she gasped, doubting if she had heard aright. "Yes, marriage. Young girls think of such things, do they not?" Wishing to find out what he meant, Beatrice fenced. "I have no chance of marrying, father," she observed, regaining her composure. "I grant that, unless you have fallen in love with Jerry Snow; and I credit you with too much sense, to think you could love a fool." "Mr. Snow is to marry Miss Paslow," announced Beatrice coldly, and kept her eyes on the wizen face before her. "Oh," sneered Alpenny, "Hunger wedding Thirst. And how do they intend to live, may I ask?" "That is their business, and not ours." "Paslow hasn't a penny to give to his giggling sister, and very soon he won't have a roof over his head." "What do you mean by that, father?"