“The place I live in, in the north of London: a little street you certainly never heard of.”
“What is it called?”
“Lomax Place, at your service,” he laughed.
She seemed to reflect his innocent gaiety; she wasn’t a bit afraid to let him see she liked him. “No, I don’t think I’ve heard of it. I don’t know London very well; I haven’t lived here long. I’ve spent most of my life abroad. My husband’s a foreigner, a South Italian. We don’t live always together. I haven’t the manners of this country—not of any class, have I, eh? Oh this country—there’s a great deal to be said about it and a great deal to be done, as you of course understand better than any one. But I want to know London; it interests me more than I can say—the huge, swarming, smoky, human city. I mean real London, the people and all their sufferings and passions; not Park Lane and Bond Street. Perhaps you can help me—it would be a great kindness: that’s what I want to know men like you for. You see it isn’t idle, my having given you so much trouble to-night.”
“I shall be very glad to show you all I know. But it isn’t much and above all it isn’t pretty,” said Hyacinth.
“Whom do you live with in Lomax Place?” she asked, a little oddly, by way of allowance for this.
“Captain Sholto’s leaving the young lady—he’s coming back here,” Madame Grandoni announced, inspecting the balcony with her instrument. The orchestra had been for some time playing the overture to the following act.
Hyacinth had just hesitated. “I live with a dressmaker.”
“With a dressmaker? Do you mean—do you mean—?” But the Princess paused.
“Do you mean she’s your wife?” asked Madame Grandoni more bravely.