She seemed to reflect his innocent gaiety; she wasn’t a bit afraid to let him see she liked him. “No, I don’t think I’ve heard of it. I don’t know London very well; I haven’t lived here long. I’ve spent most of my life abroad. My husband’s a foreigner, a South Italian. We don’t live always together. I haven’t the manners of this country—not of any class, have I, eh? Oh this country—there’s a great deal to be said about it and a great deal to be done, as you of course understand better than any one. But I want to know London; it interests me more than I can say—the huge, swarming, smoky, human city. I mean real London, the people and all their sufferings and passions; not Park Lane and Bond Street. Perhaps you can help me—it would be a great kindness: that’s what I want to know men like you for. You see it isn’t idle, my having given you so much trouble to-night.” “I shall be very glad to show you all I know. But it isn’t much and above all it isn’t pretty,” said Hyacinth. “Whom do you live with in Lomax Place?” she asked, a little oddly, by way of allowance for this. “Captain Sholto’s leaving the young lady—he’s coming back here,” Madame Grandoni announced, inspecting the balcony with her instrument. The orchestra had been for some time playing the overture to the following act. Hyacinth had just hesitated. “I live with a dressmaker.” “With a dressmaker? Do you mean—do you mean—?” But the Princess paused. “Do you mean she’s your wife?” asked Madame Grandoni more bravely. “Perhaps she gives you rooms,” the Princess suggested. “How many do you think I have? She gives me everything, or has done so in the past. She brought me up; she’s the best little woman in the world.” “You had better command a dress of her,” Madame Grandoni threw off. “And your family, where are they?” the Princess continued. “I have no family.” “None at all?” “None at all. I never had.” “But the French blood you speak of and which I see perfectly in your face—you haven’t the English expression or want of expression—that must have come to you through some one.” “Yes, through my mother.” “And she’s dead?” “Long ago.” “That’s a great loss, because French mothers are usually so much to their sons.” The Princess looked at her painted fan as she opened and closed it; after which she said: “Well then, you’ll come some day. We’ll arrange it.” Hyacinth felt the answer to this could be only a silent inclination of his utmost stature, and to make it he rose from his chair. As he stood there, conscious he had stayed long enough and yet not knowing exactly how to withdraw, the Princess, with her fan closed, resting upright on her knee, and her hands clasped on the end of it, turned up her strange lovely eyes at him and said: “Do you think anything will occur soon?” “Will occur—?” “That there’ll be a crisis—that you’ll make yourselves felt?”