He transferred his remarkable little eyes—eyes which always appeared to her to belong to a person older and stronger than herself—to her face; and then he put to her: “Why should I save such a creature if I don’t like her?” “If she likes you, that will be enough.” At this Miss Pynsent began to see that he was moved. “Will she like me very much?” “More, much more, than any one—ever.” “More than you, now?” “Oh,” said Amanda quickly, “I mean more than she likes any one.” Hyacinth had slipped his hands into the pockets of his scanty knickerbockers and, with his legs slightly apart, looked from his companion back to the immense dreary jail. A great deal, to her sense, depended on the moment. “Oh well,” he said at last, “I’ll just step in.” “Deary, deary!” the dressmaker murmured to herself as they crossed the bare semicircle which separated the gateway from the unfrequented street. She exerted herself to pull the bell, which seemed to her terribly big and stiff, and while she waited again for the consequences of this effort the boy broke out abruptly: “How can she like me so much if she has never seen me?” Miss Pynsent wished the gate would open before an answer to this question should become imperative, but the people within were a long time arriving, and their delay gave Hyacinth an opportunity to repeat it. So she replied, seizing the first pretext that came into her head: “It’s because the little baby she had of old was also named Hyacinth.” “That’s a rummy reason,” the boy murmured, still staring across at the Battersea shore.