The Princess looked at him very sharply, and then turned her eyes upon Grey Stuart, who, though her colour was slightly heightened, felt amused at their host’s frank, bold questioning, and met the Princess’s eyes with so ingenuous a look that the latter’s suspicions were half disarmed.
“Well,” said the Inche Maida, smiling, “what do you say?”
“That Mr Chumbley is my very good friend; that is all.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said the Princess, smiling. “I don’t see why you two should not be more than friends; and sometimes I feel half glad, sometimes half sorry. What strange people you English are!”
She took Grey’s hand and held it, patting it affectionately as she spoke.
“Why are we so strange?” said Grey, smiling.
“Because it is your nature; you seem so cold and hard to touch, while a spark will set us on fire. I thought when I went to your head chief, Mr Harley, and told him and his officers of my troubles—how I, a weak woman, was oppressed by cruel neighbours—that it would have been enough to make him send fighting men to drive my enemies away. But no; it is talk, talk, talk. You are cold and distant, and you love your friends!”
“But when we make friends we are very faithful and sincere,” said Grey, earnestly.
“Some of you, my child—some of you,” said the Princess, nodding her head, and looking intently at the fair, sweet face before her. “Some of you can be very true and sincere as you call it; some of you I would not trust. And you think,” with a quick look of her dark eyes, “that you could not trust some of us. Well, perhaps you are right; but we shall see—we shall see.”