“It’s far better, of course, when one is a man.”
“I don’t know. Women do pretty well what they like. My sister and you have managed, between you, to bring me to this.”
“It’s more your sister, I suspect, than I. But why, after all, should you have disliked so much to come?”
“Well, since you ask me,” said Paul Muniment, “I will tell you frankly, though I don’t mean it uncivilly, that I don’t know what to make of you.”
“Most people don’t,” returned the Princess. “But they usually take the risk.”
“Ah, well, I’m the most prudent of men.”
“I was sure of it; that is one of the reasons why I wanted to know you. I know what some of your ideas are—Hyacinth Robinson has told me; and the source of my interest in them is partly the fact that you consider very carefully what you attempt.”
“That I do—I do,” said Muniment, simply.
The tone in which he said this would have been almost ignoble, as regards a kind of northern canniness which it expressed, had it not been corrected by the character of his face, his youth and strength, and his military eye. The Princess recognised both the shrewdness and the latent audacity as she rejoined, “To do anything with you would be very safe. It would be sure to succeed.”
“That’s what poor Hyacinth thinks,” said Paul Muniment.