should ever quarrel; their acquaintance would be a solid friendship or it would be nothing at all. The Princess gave it from hour to hour more of this quality, and it may be imagined how safe Hyacinth felt by the time he began to tell her that something had happened to him, in London, three months before, one night (or rather in the small hours of the morning), that had altered his life altogether—had, indeed, as he might say, changed the terms on which he held it. He was aware that he didn't know exactly what he meant by this last phrase; but it expressed sufficiently well the new feeling that had come over him since that interminable, tantalising cab-drive in the rain.
The Princess had led to this, almost as soon as they left the house; making up for her avoidance of such topics the day before by saying, suddenly, 'Now tell me what is going on among your friends. I don't mean your worldly acquaintances, but your colleagues, your brothers. Où en êtes-vous, at the present time? Is there anything new, is anything going to be done; I am afraid you are always simply dawdling and muddling.' Hyacinth felt as if, of late, he had by no means either dawdled or muddled; but before he had committed himself so far as to refute the imputation the Princess exclaimed, in another tone, 'How annoying it is that I can't ask you anything without giving you the right to say to yourself, "After all, what do I know? May she not be in the pay of the police?"'
'Oh, that doesn't occur to me,' said Hyacinth, with a smile.
'It might, at all events; by which I mean it may, at any moment. Indeed, I think it ought.'
