of the purest, kindest, most conscientious human beings it was possible to imagine. At this she stopped short and looked at him; then she asked, “Whom do you mean—a noble lady?” “I suppose there is no harm saying. Lady Aurora Langrish.” “I don’t know her. Is she nice?” “I like her ever so much.” “Is she pretty, clever?” “She isn’t pretty, but she is very uncommon,” said Hyacinth. “How did you make her acquaintance?” As he hesitated, she went on, “Did you bind some books for her?” “No. I met her in a place called Audley Court.” “Where is that?” “In Camberwell.” “And who lives there?” “A young woman I was calling on, who is bedridden.” “And the lady you speak of—what do you call her, Lydia Languish?—goes to see her?” “Yes, very often.” The Princess was silent a moment, looking at him. “Will you take me there?” “With great pleasure. The young woman I speak of is the sister of the chemist’s assistant you will perhaps remember that I mentioned to you.” “Yes, I remember. It must be one of the first places we go to. I am sorry,” the Princess added, walking on. Hyacinth inquired what she might be sorry for, but she took no notice of his question, and presently remarked, “Perhaps she goes to see him.” “Goes to see whom?” “The chemist’s assistant—the brother.” She said this very seriously. “Perhaps she does,” Hyacinth rejoined, laughing. “But she is a fine sort of woman.” The Princess repeated that she was sorry, and he again asked her for what—for Lady Aurora’s being of that sort? To which she replied, “No; I mean for my not being the first—what is it you call them?—noble lady that you have encountered.” “I don’t see what difference that makes. You needn’t be afraid you don’t make an impression on me.” “I was not thinking of that. I was thinking that you might be less fresh than I thought.” “Of course I don’t know what you thought,” said Hyacinth, smiling. “No; how should you?” XXIII He was in the library, after luncheon, when word was brought to him that the carriage was at the door, for their drive; and when he went into the hall he found Madame Grandoni, bonneted and cloaked, awaiting the descent of the Princess. “You see I go with you. I am always there,” she remarked, jovially. “The Princess has me with her to take care of her, and this is how I do it. Besides, I never miss my drive.” “You are different from me; this will be the first I have ever had in my life.” He could establish that distinction without bitterness, because he was too pleased with his prospect to believe the old lady’s presence could spoil it. He had nothing to say to the Princess that she might not hear. He didn’t dislike her for coming, even after she had said to him, in answer to his own announcement, speaking rather more sententiously than was her wont, “It doesn’t surprise me that you have not spent your life in carriages. They have nothing to do with your trade.” “Fortunately not,” he answered. “I should have made a ridiculous coachman.”