“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 he 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’d come and take you away.”
“Please don’t speak of my husband,” she returned gravely. “You’ve no qualification for doing so. You know nothing whatever about him.”
“I know what Hyacinth has told me.”
“Oh Hyacinth!” she sighed 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.
“Of course you think me very plain and coarse.”
“Certainly you’ve not such a nice address as Hyacinth”—the Princess had no wish, on her side, to evade the topic. “But that’s given to very few,” she added; “and I don’t know that pretty manners are exactly what we’re working for.”