Hyacinth smiled at her and said: “Ah when you get to the lowest depths of poverty they may become rich and rare again. But I’m afraid I haven’t gone so far down. In spite of my opportunities I don’t know many absolute paupers.” “I know a great many.” Lady Aurora hesitated as if she didn’t like to swagger, but she brought it out. “I daresay I know more than any one.” There was something touching and beautiful to Hyacinth in this simple and diffident claim: it confirmed his impression that she was in some mysterious, incongruous and even slightly ludicrous manner a true heroine, a creature of a noble ideal. She perhaps guessed he was indulging in reflexions that might be favourable to her, for she said precipitately the next minute, as if there were nothing she dreaded so much as the danger of a compliment: “I think your aunt’s so very attractive—and I’m sure dear Rosy thinks so.” No sooner had she spoken than she blushed again; it appeared to have occurred to her that he might suppose she wished to contradict him by presenting this case of his aunt as a proof that the baser sort, even in a prosaic upper layer, were not without redeeming points. There was no reason why she should not have had this intention; so without sparing her he replied: “You mean she’s an exception to what I was saying?” She stammered a little; then at last, as if, since he wouldn’t spare her, she wouldn’t spare him either: “Yes, and you’re an exception too; you’ll not make me believe you’re wanting in intelligence. The Muniments don’t think so,” she added. “No more do I myself; but that doesn’t prove that exceptions are not frequent. I’ve blood in my veins that’s not the blood of the people.” “Oh, I see,” said Lady Aurora sympathetically. And with a smile she went on: “Then you’re all the more of an exception—in the upper class!”