to Hyacinth, and then her expression changed; she repeated the jovial, encouraging, almost motherly nod with which she had greeted him when he had made his bow, and by which she appeared to wish to intimate that, better than the serene beauty on the other side, she could enter into the oddity, the discomfort, of his situation. She seemed to say to him that he must keep his head, and that if the worst should come to the worst she was there to look after him. Even when, at last, the curtain descended, it was some moments before the Princess spoke, though she rested her smile upon Hyacinth as if she were considering what he would best like her to say. He might at that instant have guessed what he discovered later—that among this lady's faults (he was destined to learn that they were numerous), not the least eminent was an exaggerated fear of the commonplace. He expected she would make some remark about the play, but what she said was, very gently and kindly, 'I like to know all sorts of people.'
'I shouldn't think you would find the least difficulty in that,' Hyacinth replied.
'Oh, if one wants anything very much, it's sure to be difficult. Every one isn't as obliging as you.'
Hyacinth could think, immediately, of no proper rejoinder to this; but the old lady saved him the trouble by declaring, with a foreign accent, 'I think you were most extraordinarily good-natured. I had no idea you would come—to two strange women.'
'Yes, we are strange women,' said the Princess, musingly.
'It's not true that she finds things difficult; she makes every one do everything,' her companion went on.
The Princess glanced at her; then remarked to Hyacinth,
