“And so have I, I think I may pretend,” said the Prince. “You tell me to give her time, and it is certain that she will take it, whether I give it or not. But I can at least stop giving her money. By heaven, it’s my duty, as an honest man.”
“She tells me that as it is you don’t give her much.”
“Much, dear lady? It depends on what you call so. It’s enough to make all these scoundrels flock around her.”
“They are not all scoundrels, any more than she is. That is the strange part of it,” said the old woman, with a weary sigh.
“But this fellow, the chemist—to-night—what do you call him?”
“She has spoken to me of him as a most estimable young man.”
“But she thinks it’s estimable to blow us all up,” the Prince returned. “Doesn’t he take her money?”
“I don’t know what he takes. But there are some things—heaven forbid one should forget them! The misery of London is something fearful.”
“Che vuole? There is misery everywhere,” returned the Prince. “It is the will of God. Ci vuol’ pazienza! And in this country does no one give alms?”
“Every one, I believe. But it appears that it is not enough.”