Yes; her aunt was at home. At ten in the morning that was a matter of
course. She was shown, not into the grand drawing-room, which was only
used on grand occasions, but into a little back parlour which, in spite
of the wealth and magnificence of the Zamenoys, was not so clean as the
room in the Kleinseite, and certainly not so comfortable as the Jew's
apartment. There was no carpet; but that was not much, as carpets in
Prague were not in common use. There were two tables crowded with
things needed for household purposes, half-a-dozen chairs of different
patterns, a box of sawdust close under the wall, placed there that
papa Zamenoy might spit into it when it pleased him. There was a crowd
of clothes and linen hanging round the stove, which projected far into
the room; and spread upon the table, close to which was placed mamma
Zamenoy's chair, was an article of papa Zamenoy's dress, on which mamma
Zamenoy was about to employ her talents in the art of tailoring. All
this, however, was nothing to Nina, nor was the dirt on the floor much
to her, though she had often thought that if she were to go and live
with aunt Sophie, she would contrive to make some improvement as to the
cleanliness of the house.

"Your aunt will be down soon," said Lotta Luxa as they passed through
the passage. "She is very angry, Nina, at not seeing you all the last
week."

"I don't know why she should be angry, Lotta. I did not say I would
come."

Lotta Luxa was a sharp little woman, over forty years of age, with
quick green eyes and thin red-tipped nose, looking as though Paris
might have been the town of her birth rather than Prague. She wore
short petticoats, clean stockings, an old pair of slippers; and in the