he Park. And the morning was fresh and
bright; the energetic little Polish lady was more talkative and cheerful
than ever; the girl with her had only to listen, with as much appearance
of interest as was possible, considering that her thoughts were so apt
to wonder away elsewhither.

"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.