“Yes, no doubt it’s a very great thing. But it will be a still greater thing when you’re there.” “I’m afraid you hope too much,” the young man observed. “Where is it? I don’t think you told me.” The Princess drew a small folded letter from her pocket and, without saying anything, held it out to him. He got up to take it from her, opened it and as he read it remained standing in front of her. Then he went straight to the fire and thrust the paper into it. At this act she rose quickly, as to save the document, but the expression of his face while he turned round to her made her stop. The smile that came into her own was a little forced. “What are you afraid of?” she asked. “I take it the house is known. If we go I suppose we may admit that we go.” Paul’s face showed he had been annoyed, but he answered quietly enough: “No writing—no writing.” “You’re terribly careful,” said the Princess. “Careful of you—yes.” She sank upon her sofa again, asking her companion to ring for tea; they would do much better to have it before going out. When the order had been given she went on: “I see I shall have much less keen emotion than when I acted by myself.” “Is that what you go in for—keen emotion?” “Surely, Mr. Muniment. Don’t you?” “God forbid! I hope to have as little of any sort as possible.” “Of course one doesn’t want any vague rodomontade, one wants to do something. But it would be hard if one couldn’t have a little pleasure by the way.” “My pleasure’s in keeping very cool,” Muniment said. “So is mine. But it depends on how you understand it. I like quietness in the midst of a tumult.” “You’ve rare ideas about tumults. They’re not good in themselves.” The Princess considered this a moment. “I wonder if you’re too prudent. I shouldn’t like that. If it’s made an accusation against you that you’ve been—where we’re going—shall you deny it?” “With that prospect it would be simpler not to go at all, wouldn’t it?” he lucidly asked. “Which prospect do you mean? That of being found out or that of having to lie?” “I suppose that if you lie well enough you’re not found out.” And he spoke again as for amusement. “You won’t take me seriously,” said the Princess—and without irritation, without resentment, with accepted, intelligent sadness. Yet there was a fineness of reproach in the tone in which she added: “I don’t believe you want to go at all.” “Why else should I have come—especially if I don’t take you seriously?” “That has never been a reason for a man’s not going to see a woman,” said the Princess. “It’s usually a reason in favour of it.”