Mopius was standing in the small drawing-room with the Guicciardi ceiling, his fishy eyes unappreciatively fixed on a Florentine inlaid cabinet full of cameos and signets.
“A lot of money here,” he said, by way of greeting, as Ursula entered. “And what rubbish outside a museum! Why, my terra-cottas at Blanda are ten times as effective.”
“The things belong to the Dowager Baroness,” replied Ursula.
“Why, you’re the Dowager Baroness now, ain’t you?” objected Mopius. “Harriet said so when we sent our cards. Who’d have thought it of Mary’s child? Not that I care a brass farthing for barons or princes of any kind. You couldn’t make a greater mistake, Ursula, than to imagine that I felt in any way proud about your elevation; so don’t ever come offering to do me any service of any kind.”
“It is the last thing I should wish to do,” replied Ursula. “Won’t you sit down?”
“Quite right, though I can’t say you put it very prettily. However, in this family, it’s I that confer benefits. I’ve come here with that object now. You’re a mighty fine lady, Ursula; but you may be glad of a burgher uncle with a well-filled purse.”
Ursula waited, wondering.
“I’m going to offer you money,” said her uncle, bluntly.
Ursula dropped her eyes to the floor. “You are doubly mistaken, Uncle Jacóbus,” she answered in her coldest manner. “I am not a fine lady, nor am I a beggar.”