“In getting in so uncommon deep.”
On the instant the Princess’s expression flashed into pure passion. “Do you consider that I am in—really far?”
“Up to your neck, ma’am.”
“And do you think that il y va of my neck—I mean that it’s in danger?” she translated, eagerly.
“Oh, I understand your French. Well, I’ll look after you,” Muniment said.
“Remember, then, definitely, that I expect not to lie.”
“Not even for me?” Then Muniment added, in the same familiar tone, which was not rough nor wanting in respect, but only homely and direct, suggestive of growing acquaintance, “If I was your husband I would come and take you away.”
“Please don’t speak of my husband,” said the Princess, gravely. “You have no qualification for doing so; you know nothing whatever about him.”
“I know what Hyacinth has told me.”
“Oh, Hyacinth!” the Princess murmured, impatiently. There was another silence of some minutes, not disconnected, apparently, from this reference to the little bookbinder; but when Muniment spoke, after the interval, it was not to carry on the allusion—