“My dear, what a lovely morning for us to go and look at my treasures!  The other day I was saying to myself, ’There is my adopted daughter Natalie, and I have not a farthing to leave her.  What is the use of adopting a child if you have nothing to leave her?  Then I said to myself, ’Never mind; I will teach her my theory of living; that will make her richer than a hundred legacies will do.’  Dear, dear! that was all the legacy my poor husband left to me.”

She passed her hand over her eyes.

“Don’t you ever marry a man who has anything to do with politics, my child.  Many a time my poor Potecki used to say to me, ’My angel, cultivate contentment; you may have to live on it some day.’”

“And you have taken his advice, madame; you are very content.”

“Why?  Because I have my theory.  They think that I am poor.  It is poor Madame Potecki, who earns her solitary supper by ’One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four;’ who has not a treasure in the world—­except a young Hungarian lady, who is almost a daughter to her.  Well, well; but you know my way of thinking, my dear, you laugh at it; I know you do.  You say, ‘That mad little Madame Potecki.’  But some day I will convince you.”

“I am willing to be taught now, madame—­seriously.  Is it not wise to be content?”

“I am more than content, my dear; I am proud, I am vain.  When I think of all the treasures that belong to the public, and to me as one of the public—­the Turner landscapes in the National Gallery; the books and statues in the British Museum; the bronzes and china and jewellery at South Kensington—­do you not think, my dear, that I am thankful I have no paltry little collection in my own house that I should be ashamed of?  Then look at the care that is taken of them.  I have no risk.  I am not disheartened for a day because a servant has broken my best piece of Nankin blue.  I have no trouble and no thought; it is only when I have a little holiday that I say to myself, ’Well, shall I go and see my Rembrandts?  Or shall I look over my cases of Etruscan rings?  Or shall I go and feast my eyes on the bleu de roi of a piece of jewelled Sevres?’ Oh, my love!”

She clasped her hands in ecstasy.  Her volubility had outrun itself and got choked.

“I will show you three vases,” said she, presently, in almost a solemn way—­“I will show you three vases, in white and brown crackle, and put all the color in the whole of my collection to shame.  My dear, I have never seen in the world anything so lovely—­the soft cream-white ground, the rich brown decoration—­the beautiful, bold, graceful shape; and they only cost sixty pounds!—­sixty pounds for three, and they are worth a kingdom!  Why—­But really, my dear Natalie, you walk too fast.  I feel as if I were being marched off to prison!”

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” said the girl, laughing.  “I am always forgetting; and papa scolds me often enough for it.”