The Princess glanced at her and then remarked to Hyacinth: “Her name is Madame Grandoni.” The tone was not familiar, but there was a happy shade in it, as if he had really taken so much trouble for them that it was but just he should be entertained a little at their expense. It seemed to imply also that Madame Grandoni’s fitness for supplying such entertainment was obvious. “But I’m not Italian—ah no!” the old lady cried. “In spite of my name I’m an honest, ugly, unfortunate German. But _cela n’a pas d’importance_. She also, with such a name, isn’t Italian either. It’s an accident; the world’s full of accidents. But she isn’t German, poor lady, any more.” Madame Grandoni appeared to have entered into the Princess’s view, and Hyacinth thought her exceedingly droll. In a moment she added: “That was a very charming person you were with.” “Yes, she’s very charming,” Hyacinth replied, not sorry to have a chance to say it. The Princess made no remark on this subject, and Hyacinth saw not only that from her position in the box she could have had no glimpse of Millicent, but that she would never take up such an allusion as that. It was as if she had not heard it that she asked: “Do you find the play very interesting?” He hesitated, then told the simple truth. “I must confess I’ve lost the whole of this last act.” “Ah, poor bothered young man!” cried Madame Grandoni. “You see—you see!” “What do I see?” the Princess inquired. “If you’re annoyed at being here now you’ll like us later; probably at least. We take a great interest in the things you care for. We take a great interest in the people,” the Princess went on. “Oh, allow me, allow me, and speak only for yourself!” the elder lady interposed. “I take no interest whatever in the people; I don’t understand them and I know nothing about them. An honourable nature, of any class, I always respect; but I won’t pretend to a passion for the ignorant masses, because I have it not. Moreover that doesn’t touch the gentleman.” The Princess Casamassima had a clear faculty of completely ignoring things of which she wished to take no account; it was not in the least the air of contempt, but thoughtful, tranquil, convenient absence, after which she came back to the point where she wished to be. She made no protest against her companion’s speech, but said to Hyacinth, as if vaguely conscious she had been committing herself in some absurd way: “She lives with me; she’s everything to me; she’s the best woman in the world.” “Yes, fortunately, with many superficial defects I’m as good as good bread,” Madame Grandoni conceded.