"Yes," said John. "Yours will be the image."

Annunziata gave her head a toss. "Maria Dolores did not tell me her
Pagan name," she said.

"At any rate," said he, "to judge by the company she keeps, we may
safely classify her as unborn. She is probably the daughter of a
miller,--of a miller (to judge also a little by the frocks she wears) in
rather a large way of business, who (to judge finally by her cultivated
voice, her knowledge of languages, and her generally distinguished air)
has spared no expense in the matter of her education. I shouldn't
wonder a bit if she could even play the piano."

"No," agreed Annunziata, "that is very likely. But why"--she tilted
upwards her inquisitive little profile--"why should you think she is the
daughter of a miller?"

"Miller," said John, "I use as a generic term. Her father may be a
lexicographer or a dry-salter, a designer of dirigible balloons or a
manufacturer of air-pumps; he may even be a person of independent means,
who lives in a big, new, stuccoed villa in the suburbs of Vienna, and
devotes his leisure to the propagation of orchids: yet all the while a
miller. By miller I mean a member of the Bourgeoisie: a man who, though
he be well to do, well educated, well bred, does not bear coat-armour,
and is therefore to be regarded by those who do with their noses in the
air,--especially in Austria. Among Austrians, unless you bear
coat-armour, you're impossible, you're nowhere. We mustn't let you
become enamoured of her if she doesn't bear coat-armour."

Annunziata's eyes, during this divagation, had wandered to the window,