“Dear heart, I imagine the question is settled between us, and never to be discussed again.  I simply cannot live free of expense in the house of my—­”

“Your wife,” she broke in hastily.

“Of my—­wife.”

“Very well,” she said, resigning herself, “you must have your own way, I suppose.  But explain to me, my Teutonic philosopher, how comes it that so high-bred a body and so noble a mind can contain a corner holding such a tradesman’s idea?  How can one make these commonplace calculations when one is in love?  Are you Germans all like that, or is it an inherited weakness in your family?”

“In my family,” he answered simply, and without a trace of bitterness, “as far back as I know of (though that is certainly not anything like as far as your ancestor, the first knight of San Iago), we have always worked for our living, and owed all to our own industry.  I am the first who found the table ready spread for him, and who knows if it has been an advantage to me.”

“Now you are making fun of my ancestors, you disagreeable man—­when did I ever say such a silly thing?”

“I never said you did, but you asked an explanation of the German philosopher, and the German philosopher has done his best to give you one.”

She locked her pocketbook in the cabinet again, and there the matter ended between them.

The rest of the household, which seemed to accept the establishing of the new guest without the faintest surprise, consisted, beside Anne, of the man-servant Auguste, a young, knowing-looking southern Frenchman, with a clean-shaven, lackey’s face, the old Spanish cook Isabel, a colossal, unwieldly, hippopotamus-like person with a red nose, watery, bloodshot eyes, and a strident voice, and Don Pablo, who seemed to be a mixture of servant, major-domo, and the confidential attendant of the old plays.  Pilar esteemed him highly, and always spoke of him in terms of respect.  According to her, he came of a good Catalonian family, had served with the Carlists and received titles and orders of distinction from Don Carlos.  After the downfall of the cause for which he had fought he had come to Paris like so many of his compatriots and Pilar had rescued him from terrible want.  He did not live in the house, but had an attic somewhere in the town.  Every morning he appeared at the Boulevard Pereire to receive Pilar’s orders, was occupied during the whole day in going on errands and doing shopping of every description, and his work over returned late in the evening to his lodging.  He was a tall, thin, middle-aged man with a long leathery face, a long painted nose, long oily hair, and long gray mustache.  The entire loose, bony figure looked like a reflection in a concave glass—­all distorted into length.  Don Pablo had a deeply melancholy air, never smiled and spoke but little.  During the few spare hours which the countess’ service—­in which his legs were chiefly in demand—­ permitted, he might be seen in