Each of these persons was powerfully affected by the other's idiosyncrasies, and each wanted the other to remain as she was while she herself should be transformed into the image of her friend.
One evening, going to Madeira Crescent a little later than usual, Hyacinth met Lady Aurora on the doorstep, leaving the house. She had a different air from any he had seen in her before; appeared flushed and even a little agitated, as if she had been learning a piece of bad news. She said, 'Oh, how do you do?' with her customary quick, vague laugh; but she went her way, without stopping to talk.
Hyacinth, on going in, mentioned to the Princess that he had encountered her, and this lady replied, 'It's a pity you didn't come a little sooner. You would have assisted at a scene.'
'At a scene?' Hyacinth repeated, not understanding what violence could have taken place between mutual adorers.
'She made me a scene of tears, of earnest remonstrance—perfectly well meant, I needn't tell you. She thinks I am going too far.'
'I imagine you tell her things that you don't tell me,' said Hyacinth.
'Oh, you, my dear fellow!' the Princess murmured. She spoke absent-mindedly, as if she were thinking of what had passed with Lady Aurora, and as if the futility of telling things to Hyacinth had become a commonplace.
There was no annoyance for him in this, his pretension to keep pace with her 'views' being quite extinct. The tone they now, for the most part, took with each other was one of mutual derision, of shrugging commiseration for
