drawn into her box that night at the theatre, and whom she had since told her old friend she had sent for to come and see her.
'Mr. Robinson!' the butler, who had had a lesson, announced in a loud, colourless tone.
'It won't be for long,' Madame Grandoni repeated, for the Prince's benefit; but it was to Mr. Robinson the words had the air of being addressed.
He stood there while Madame Grandoni signalled to the servant to leave the door open and wait, looking from the queer old lady, who was as queer as before, to the tall foreign gentleman (he recognised his foreignness at a glance), whose eyes seemed to challenge him, to devour him; wondering whether he had made some mistake, and needing to remind himself that he had the Princess's note in his pocket, with the day and hour as clear as her magnificent handwriting could make them.
'Good-morning, good-morning. I hope you are well,' said Madame Grandoni, with quick friendliness, but turning her back upon him at the same time, to ask of the Prince, in Italian, as she extended her hand, 'And do you not leave London soon—in a day or two?'
The Prince made no answer; he still scrutinised the little bookbinder from head to foot, as if he were wondering who the deuce he could be. His eyes seemed to Hyacinth to search for the small neat bundle he ought to have had under his arm, and without which he was incomplete. To the reader, however, it may be confided that, dressed more carefully than he had ever been in his life before, stamped with that extraordinary transformation which the British Sunday often operates in the person of
