And if Lord Tancred could have seen her then he would have known that all the courage he had used when he faced the big lion would be needed soon again.

But before a servant brought up the envelope with the notes she had calmed herself and was preparing to go out.  The good part of the news must be told to the two poor ones in their Tottenham Court Road retreat.

As she sped along in the taxi—­her uncle had placed one of his several motors at her disposal, but it was not for such localities—­she argued with herself that it would be wiser not to give Mimo all the money at once.  She knew that that would mean not only the necessary, instantaneous move to a better lodging, but an expensive dinner at the nearest restaurant as well, and certainly bonbons and small presents for Mirko, and new clothes; twice as much would be spent, if credit could be obtained; and then there would be the worry of the bills and the anxiety.  If only Mirko would consent to be parted from his fond and irresponsible parent for a time it would be so much better for his health, and his chance of becoming of some use in the world.  Mimo always meant so kindly and behaved so foolishly!  With the money she personally would get for her bargain Mimo should, somehow, be made comfortable in some studio in Paris where he could paint those pictures which would not sell, and might see his friends—­he had still a few who, when his clothes were in a sufficiently good state, welcomed him and his charming, debonair smile.  Mimo could be a delightfully agreeable guest, even though he was changed by years and poverty.

And Mirko would be in healthy surroundings; surely it was worth it, after all!

The taxi drew up in the mean street and she got out, paid the man, and then knocked at the dingy door.

A slatternly, miserable, little general servant opened it.  No, the foreign gentleman and the little boy were not in, they said they would be back in a few minutes—­would the lady step up and wait?  She followed the lumpy, untidy figure upstairs to a large attic at the top.  It was always let as a studio, apparently.  It had a fine northern light from a big window, and was quite clean, though the wretched furniture spoke of better days.

Cleanliness was one of Count Sykypri’s peculiarities; he always kept whatever room he was in tidy and clean.  This orderly instinct seemed at variance with all the rest of his easy-going character.  It was the fastidiousness of a gentleman, which never deserted him.  Now Zara recognized the old traveling rug hung on two easels, to hide the little iron beds where he and Mirko slept.  The new wonder, which would be bound to sell, was begun there on a third easel.  It did not look extremely promising at its present stage.  Mirko’s violin and his father’s, in their cases, were on a chair beside a small pile of music; the water-jug had in it a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums probably bought off a barrow.