“Oh, I felt that; my silence wasn’t accidental!” the Princess exclaimed, joining in his merriment.
“I have only come now—since you have asked me the reason—because my sister hammered at me, week after week, dinning it into me that I ought to. Oh, I’ve been under the lash! If she had left me alone, I wouldn’t have come.”
The Princess blushed on hearing these words, but not with shame or with pain; rather with the happy excitement of being spoken to in a manner so fresh and original. She had never before had a visitor who practised so racy a frankness, or who, indeed, had so curious a story to tell. She had never before so completely failed, and her failure greatly interested her, especially as it seemed now to be turning a little to success. She had succeeded promptly with every one, and the sign of it was that every one had rendered her a monotony of homage. Even poor little Hyacinth had tried, in the beginning, to say sweet things to her. This very different type of man appeared to have his thoughts fixed on anything but sweetness; she felt the liveliest hope that he would move further and further away from it. “I remember what you asked me—what good it would do you. I couldn’t tell you then; and though I now have had a long time to turn it over, I haven’t thought of it yet.”
“Oh, but I hope it will do me some,” said Paul. “A fellow wants a reward, when he has made a great effort.”
“It does me some,” the Princess remarked, gaily.
“Naturally, the awkward things I say amuse you. But I don’t say them for that, but just to give you an idea.”
“You give me a great many ideas. Besides, I know you already a good deal.”
“From little Robinson, I suppose,” said Muniment.
The Princess hesitated. “More particularly from Lady Aurora.”
“Oh, she doesn’t know much about me!” the young man exclaimed.