She shook her head, giving at the same time a short nervous laugh. I sat down by her. Her purse lay in her lap. I took it up; the Princess made no movement; her eyes were fixed on mine. I opened the purse and slipped in the notes I had procured at the bank. Her eyes did not forbid me. I snapped the purse to and laid it down again. “I had a third-class to London, and eight shillings and threepence,” she said. “You’ll go now?” “Yes,” she whispered, rising to her feet. We stood side by side now, waiting for the train. It was very hard to speak. Presently she passed her hand through my arm and let it rest there. She said no more about the money, which I was glad of. Not that I was thinking much of that. I was still rather mad, and my thoughts were full of one insane idea; it was--though I am ashamed to write it--that just as the train was starting, at the last moment, at the moment of her going, she might say: “Come with me.” “Did it surprise you?” I said at last, breaking the silence at the cost of asking a very stupid question. “I had given up all hope. Yet somehow I wasn’t very surprised. You were?” “No. I had always believed in it.” “Not at first?” “No; of late.” She looked away from me now, but I saw her lips curve in a reluctant little smile. I laughed. “I don’t think my ideas about it had any particular relation to external facts,” I confessed. “I had become a Legitimist, and Legitimists are always allowed to dream.” She gave my arm a little pat and then drew her hand gently away. “If it all comes to nothing, I shall have one friend still,” she said. “And one faithful hopeful adherent. And there’s your train.” When I put her in the carriage, my madness came back to me. I actually watched her eyes as though to see the invitation I waited for take its birth there. Of course I saw no such thing. But I seemed to see a great friendliness for me. At the last, when I had pressed her hand and then shut the door, I whispered-- “Are you afraid?” She smiled. “No. Boravia isn’t Southam Parva. I am not afraid.” Then--well, she went away. VIII Mrs Thistleton is great. I said so before, and I remain firmly of that opinion. The last time I called at the Manor, I found her in the drawing-room with Molly, the youngest daughter, a pretty and intelligent child. After some conversation, Mrs Thistleton said to me-- “A little while ago I had an idea, which my husband thought so graceful that he insisted on carrying it out. I wonder if you’ll like it! I should really like to show it to you.” I expressed a polite interest and a proper desire to see it, whatever it was. “Then I’ll take you upstairs,” said she, rising with a gracious smile.