“Of course one doesn’t want any vague rodomontade, one wants to do something. But it would be hard if one couldn’t have a little pleasure by the way.”
“My pleasure’s in keeping very cool,” Muniment said.
“So is mine. But it depends on how you understand it. I like quietness in the midst of a tumult.”
“You’ve rare ideas about tumults. They’re not good in themselves.”
The Princess considered this a moment. “I wonder if you’re too prudent. I shouldn’t like that. If it’s made an accusation against you that you’ve been—where we’re going—shall you deny it?”
“With that prospect it would be simpler not to go at all, wouldn’t it?” he lucidly asked.
“Which prospect do you mean? That of being found out or that of having to lie?”
“I suppose that if you lie well enough you’re not found out.” And he spoke again as for amusement.
“You won’t take me seriously,” said the Princess—and without irritation, without resentment, with accepted, intelligent sadness. Yet there was a fineness of reproach in the tone in which she added: “I don’t believe you want to go at all.”
“Why else should I have come—especially if I don’t take you seriously?”