“I wish I had!” she declared, in a tone charged with such ambiguous implications that Hyacinth, catching them a moment after she had spoken, rejoined, with a quick, incongruous laugh— “No, you would have spoiled everything. He made me see, he made me feel, he made me do, everything he wanted.” “And why should he have wanted you, in particular?” “Simply because I struck him as the right person. That’s his affair: I can’t tell you. When he meets the right person he chalks him. I sat on the bed. (There were only two chairs in the dirty little room, and by way of a curtain his overcoat was hung up before the window.) He didn’t sit, himself; he leaned against the wall, straight in front of me, with his hands behind him. He told me certain things, and his manner was extraordinarily quiet. So was mine, I think I may say; and indeed it was only poor Poupin who made a row. It was for my sake, somehow: he didn’t think we were all conscious enough; he wanted to call attention to my sublimity. There was no sublimity about it—I simply couldn’t help myself. He and the other German had the two chairs, and Muniment sat on a queer old battered, hair-covered trunk, a most foreign-looking article.” Hyacinth had taken no notice of the little ejaculation with which his companion greeted, in this last sentence, the word ‘other’. “And what did Mr Muniment say?” she presently inquired. “Oh, he said it was all right. Of course he thought that, from the moment he determined to bring me. He knew what the other fellow was looking for.” “I see.” Then the Princess remarked, “We have a curious way of being fond of you.” “Whom do you mean by ‘we’?” “Your friends. Mr Muniment and I, for instance.” “I like it as well as any other. But you don’t feel alike. I have an idea you are sorry.” “Sorry for what?” “That I have put my head in a noose.” “Ah, you’re severe—I thought I concealed it so well!” the Princess exclaimed. He admitted that he had been severe, and begged her pardon, for he was by no means sure that there was not a hint of tears in her voice. She looked away from him for a minute, and it was after this that, stopping short, she remarked, as I have related, “He is Diedrich Hoffendahl.” Hyacinth stared for a moment, with parted lips. “Well, you _are_ in it, more than I supposed!” “You know he doesn’t trust women,” his companion smiled. “Why in the world should you have cared for any light _I_ can throw, if you have ever been in relation with him?” She hesitated a little. “Oh, you are very different. I like you better,” she added. “Ah, if it’s for that!” murmured Hyacinth.