“Perhaps she does,” Hyacinth rejoined, laughing. “But she is a fine sort of woman.”
The Princess repeated that she was sorry, and he again asked her for what—for Lady Aurora’s being of that sort? To which she replied, “No; I mean for my not being the first—what is it you call them?—noble lady that you have encountered.”
“I don’t see what difference that makes. You needn’t be afraid you don’t make an impression on me.”
“I was not thinking of that. I was thinking that you might be less fresh than I thought.”
“Of course I don’t know what you thought,” said Hyacinth, smiling.
“No; how should you?”
XXIII
He was in the library, after luncheon, when word was brought to him that the carriage was at the door, for their drive; and when he went into the hall he found Madame Grandoni, bonneted and cloaked, awaiting the descent of the Princess. “You see I go with you. I am always there,” she remarked, jovially. “The Princess has me with her to take care of her, and this is how I do it. Besides, I never miss my drive.”
“You are different from me; this will be the first I have ever had in my life.” He could establish that distinction without bitterness, because he was too pleased with his prospect to believe the old lady’s presence could spoil it. He had nothing to say to the Princess that she might not hear. He didn’t dislike her for coming, even after she had said to him, in answer to his own announcement, speaking rather more sententiously than was her wont, “It doesn’t surprise me that you have not spent your life in carriages. They have nothing to do with your trade.”
“Fortunately not,” he answered. “I should have made a ridiculous coachman.”