“You mean it should give me more hope for the future?” the young man asked quickly. His old friend had a pause. “I mean it’s better for _me_,” she answered with a laugh of which the friendly ring covered as much as possible her equivocation. “Ah, you like me enough to care,” he murmured as he turned on her his sad grateful eyes. “I’m very sorry for you. _Ma che vuole?_” The Prince had apparently nothing to suggest and only exhaled in reply another gloomy groan. Then he inquired if his wife pleased herself in that country and if she intended to pass the summer in London. Would she remain long in England and—might he take the liberty to ask?—what were her plans? Madame Grandoni explained that the Princess had found the English capital much more to her taste than one might have expected, and that as for plans she had as many or as few as she had always had. Had he ever known her to carry out any arrangement or to do anything of any kind she had prepared or promised? She always at the last moment did the other thing, the one that had been out of the question; and it was for this Madame Grandoni herself privately made her preparations. Christina, now that everything was over, would leave London from one day to the other; but they shouldn’t know where they were going till they arrived. The old lady concluded by asking if the Prince himself liked England. He thrust forward his full lips. “How can I like anything? Besides, I’ve been here before; I’ve many friends.” His companion saw he had more to say to her, to extract from her, but that he was hesitating nervously because he feared to incur some warning, some rebuff with which his dignity—in spite of his position of discomfiture, really very great—might find it difficult to square itself. He looked vaguely round the room and presently remarked: “I wanted to see for myself how she’s living.” “Yes, that’s very natural.” “I’ve heard—I’ve heard—” And Prince Casamassima stopped. “You’ve heard great rubbish, I’ve no doubt.” Madame Grandoni watched him as if she foresaw what was coming. “She spends a terrible deal of money,” said the young man. “Indeed she does.” The old lady knew that, careful as he was of his very considerable property, which at one time had required much nursing, his wife’s prodigality was not what lay heaviest on his mind. She also knew that expensive and luxurious as Christina might be she had never yet exceeded the income settled upon her by the Prince at the time of their separation—an income determined wholly by himself and his estimate of what was required to maintain the social consequence of his name, for which he had a boundless reverence. “She thinks she’s a model of thrift—that she counts every shilling,” Madame Grandoni continued. “If there’s a virtue she prides herself upon it’s her economy. Indeed it’s the only thing for which she takes any credit.”