ments; he was a gentleman and a man of experience, and she would only have to leave the tone to him. He stood there with his large, polished hat in his two hands, a hat of the fashion of ten years before, with a rusty sheen and an undulating brim—stood there without a salutation or a speech, but with a little fixed, acute, tentative smile, which seemed half to inquire and half to explain. What he explained was that he was clever enough to be trusted, and that if he had come to see her that way, abruptly, without an invitation, he had a reason which she would be sure to think good enough when she should hear it. There was even a certain jauntiness in this confidence—an insinuation that he knew how to present himself to a lady; and though it quickly appeared that he really did, that was the only thing about him that was inferior—it suggested a long experience of actresses at rehearsal, with whom he had formed habits of advice and compliment.
'I know who you are—I know who you are,' said the Princess, though she could easily see that he knew she did.
'I wonder whether you also know why I have come to see you,' Mr. Vetch replied, presenting the top of his hat to her as if it were a looking-glass.
'No, but it doesn't matter. I am very glad; you might even have come before.' Then the Princess added, with her characteristic honesty, 'Don't you know of the great interest I have taken in your nephew?'
'In my nephew? Yes, my young friend Robinson. It is in regard to him that I have ventured to intrude upon you.'
The Princess had been on the point of pushing a chair toward him, but she stopped in the act, staring, with a
