pursued to Pinnie, “and I hope you see the importance of the question, ‘Shall anything go?’ I should like you to look round a bit and tell me what you would answer if I were to say to you, ‘_Can_ anything go?’” XV “I’m sure there’s nothing _I_ should like to part with,” Pinnie returned; and while she surveyed the scene Lady Aurora, with discretion, to lighten Amanda’s responsibility, got up and turned to the window, which was open to the summer evening and admitted still the last rays of the long day. Hyacinth, after a moment, placed himself beside her, looking out with her at the dusky multitude of chimney-pots and the small black houses roofed with grimy tiles. The thick warm air of a London July floated beneath them, suffused with the everlasting uproar of the town, which appeared to have sunk into quietness but again became a mighty voice as soon as one listened for it; here and there, in poor windows, glimmered a turbid light, and high above, in a clearer smokeless zone, a sky still fair and luminous, a faint silver star looked down. The sky was the same that bent far away in the country over golden fields and purple hills and gardens where nightingales sang; but from this point of view everything that covered the earth was ugly and sordid and seemed to express or to represent the weariness of toil. Presently, to Hyacinth’s astonishment, Lady Aurora said to him: “You never came after to get the books.” “Those you kindly offered to lend me? I didn’t know it was an understanding.” She gave an uneasy laugh. “I’ve picked them out; they’re quite ready.” “It’s awfully kind of you,” the young man hastened to say. “I’ll come and get them some day with pleasure.” He wasn’t very sure he would, but it was the least he could profess. “She’ll tell you where I live, you know,” Lady Aurora went on with a movement of her head in the direction of the bed, as if she were too shy to mention it herself. “Oh, I’ve no doubt she knows the way—she could tell me every street and every turn!” Hyacinth laughed. “She has made me describe to her very often how I come and go,” his companion concurred. “I think few people know more about London than she. She never forgets anything.” “She’s a wonderful little witch—she terrifies me!” he acknowledged. Lady Aurora turned her modest eyes on him. “Oh, she’s so good, she’s so patient!” “Yes, and so preternaturally wise and so awfully all there.” “Ah, she’s immensely clever,” said her ladyship. “Which do you think the cleverer?” “The cleverer?” “Of the girl or her brother.” “Oh, I think he’ll be some day prime minister of England.” “Do you really? I’m so glad!” she cried with a flush of colour. “I do rejoice if you think that will be possible. You know it ought to be if things were right.”