“And why should he have wanted you in particular?” “Simply because I struck him as the right person. That’s his affair: I can’t tell you. When he meets the right person he chalks him. I sat on the bed. There were only two chairs in the dirty little room and by way of curtain his overcoat was hung up before the window. He himself didn’t sit; he leaned against the wall straight in front of me, his hands behind him. He told me certain things and his manner was extraordinarily quiet. So was mine, I think I may say; and indeed it was only poor Poupin who made a row. It was for my sake somehow: he didn’t think we were all conscious enough; he wanted to call attention to my sublimity. There was no sublimity about it—I simply couldn’t help myself. He and the other German had the two chairs and Muniment sat on a queer old, battered, hair-covered trunk, a most foreign-looking article.” Hyacinth had taken no notice of the little ejaculation with which his companion greeted in this last sentence the word “other.” “And what did Mr. Muniment say?” she presently asked. “Oh he said it was all right. Of course he thought so from the moment he determined to bring me. He knew what the other fellow was looking for.” “I see.” Then the Princess added: “We’ve a curious way of being fond of you.” “Whom do you mean by ‘we’?” “Your friends. Mr. Muniment and I for instance.” “I like it as well as any other. But you don’t feel alike. I’ve an idea you yourself are sorry.” “Sorry for what?” “That I’ve put my head into a noose.” “Ah you’re rather snubby—I thought I concealed it so well!” the Princess cried. He recognised that his discrimination had been invidious, as there might have been for an instant a hint of tears in her voice. She looked away from him, and it was after this that, stopping short, she remarked as I have related: “Your man’s Diedrich Hoffendahl.” Hyacinth took it with a stare and parted lips. “Well, you _are_ in it—more than I supposed!” “You know he doesn’t trust women,” his companion smiled. “Why in the world should you have cared for any light _I_ can throw if you’ve ever been in relation with him?” She hesitated a little. “Oh you’re very different. I like you better,” she added. “Ah if it’s for that!” murmured Hyacinth. The Princess coloured as he had seen her colour before, and in this liability on her part there was even after repetition an unexpectedness, something all too touching. “Don’t try to fix my inconsistencies on me,” she said with a humility that matched her blush. “Of course there are plenty of them, but it will always be kinder of you to let them pass. Besides, in this case they’re not so serious as they seem. As a product of the ‘people’ and of that strange fermenting underworld (what you say of it’s so true!) you interest me more and have more to say to me even than Hoffendahl—wonderful creature as he assuredly is.” “Would you object to telling me how and where you came to know him?” her visitor asked.