Hyacinth hung back: “She has been very kind to me.”
“She’s my wife—perhaps you know.”
Again Mr. Robinson faltered, but after a moment he replied: “She has told me that she’s married.” As soon as he had spoken these words he thought them idiotic.
“You mean you wouldn’t know if she hadn’t told you, I suppose. Evidently there’s nothing to show it. You can think if that’s agreeable to me.”
“Oh I can’t think, I can’t judge.”
“You’re right—that’s impossible.” The Prince stood before his companion, and in the pale gaslight the latter saw more of his face. It had an unnatural expression, a look of wasted anxiety; the eyes seemed to glitter, and our fond observer conceived the unfortunate nobleman to be feverish and ill. He pursued in a moment: “Of course you think it strange—my conversation. I want you to tell me something.”
“I’m afraid you’re very unwell,” said Hyacinth.
“Yes, I’m very unwell; but I shall be better if you’ll tell me. It’s because you’ve come back to good ideas—that’s why I ask you.”
A sense that the situation of the Princess’s husband was really pitiful, that at any rate he suffered and was helpless, that he was a gentleman and even a person who would never have done any great harm—a perception of these appealing truths came into Hyacinth’s heart and stirred there a desire to be kind to him, to render him any service that in reason he might ask. It struck him he must be pretty sick to ask any at all, but that was his own affair. “If you’d like me to see you safely home I’ll do that,” our young friend brought out; and even while he spoke he was struck with the oddity of his being already on such friendly terms with a person whom he had hitherto supposed to be the worst enemy of the rarest of women. He found himself unable to consider the Prince with resentment.
This personage acknowledged the civility of the offer with a slight inclination of his high slimness.