"Six hundred guilders," says Lato, curtly.
Harry can scarcely believe his ears. How can Lato come to him for such a trifle?
"I can certainly scrape together that much for you," he says, carelessly, and going to his writing-table he takes a couple of bank-notes out of a drawer. "Here!" and he offers the notes to his friend.
Lato hesitates for a moment, as if in dread of the money, then takes it, and puts it in his pocket.
"Thanks," he murmurs, hoarsely, and again there is a silence, which Lato is the first to break. "Why do you look at me so inquiringly?" he exclaims, almost angrily.
"Forgive me, Lato, we are such old friends."
"What do you want to know?"
"I was only wondering how a man in your brilliant circumstances could be embarrassed for so trifling a sum as six hundred guilders!"
"A man in my brilliant circumstances!" Lato repeats, bitterly. "Yes, you think, as does everybody else, that I am still living upon my wife's money. But you are mistaken. I tried it, indeed, for a while, but I was not made to play that part, no! It was different at first; my wife wished that I should have the disposal of her means, and I half cheated myself into the belief that her millions belonged to me. She came to me for every farthing. I used to rally her upon her extravagance; I played at magnanimity, and forgave her, and made her costly presents--yes--good heavens, how disgusting! But that is long since past; we have separate purses at present, thank God! I am often too shabby nowadays for the grand folk at Dobrotschau, but that does not trouble me." He drums nervously upon the table.
Harry looks more and more amazed. "But then I cannot see why--" he murmurs, but lacks the courage to finish the sentence.