As she spoke the door opened, and Madame Grandoni appeared cautiously, creeping, as if she didn’t know what might be going on in the parlour. “Yes, I’ll come back,” said Paul quietly but clearly enough; with which he walked away, passing Madame Grandoni on the threshold and overlooking the hand-shake of farewell. In the hall he paused an instant, feeling his hostess behind him; whereby he learned that she had not come to exact from him this omitted observance, but to say once more, dropping her voice so that her companion, through the open door, might not catch: “I _could_ get money—I could!” He passed his hand through his hair and, as if he had not heard, observed: “I’ve not after all given you half Rosy’s messages.” “Oh that doesn’t matter!” she answered as she turned back into the parlour. Madame Grandoni was in the middle of the room, wrapped in her old shawl, looking vaguely round her, and the two ladies heard the house-door close. “And pray who may that be? Isn’t it a new face?” the elder one inquired. “He’s the brother of the little person I took you to see over the river—the chattering cripple with the wonderful manners.” “Ah she had a brother! That then was why you went?” It was striking, the good humour with which the Princess received this rather coarse thrust, which could have been drawn from Madame Grandoni only by the petulance and weariness of increasing age and the antipathy she now felt to Madeira Crescent and everything it produced. Christina bent a calm, charitable smile on her ancient support and replied: “There could have been no question of our seeing him. He was of course at his work.” “Ah how do I know, my dear? And is he a successor?” “A successor?” “To the little bookbinder.” “_Mia cara_,” said the Princess, “you’ll see how absurd that question is when I tell you he’s his greatest friend!” XXXVII