They found Madame Grandoni sitting alone in the twilight, very patient and peaceful and having after all, it was clear, accepted the situation too completely to fidget at such a trifle as her companion’s not coming home at a ladylike hour. She had placed herself in the back part of the tawdry little drawing-room, which looked into a small smutty garden whence by the open front window the sound of the hurdy-gurdy and the voices of the children romping to its music came to her through the summer dusk. The influence of London was present in a mitigated far-away hum, and for some reason or other at that moment the place took on to our young friend the semblance of the home of an exile—a spot and an hour to be remembered with a throb of fondness in some danger or sorrow of after-years. The old lady never moved from her chair as she saw the Princess come in with the little bookbinder, and her observation rested on that member of their circle as familiarly as if she had seen him go out with her in the afternoon. The Princess stood smiling a moment before her mild monitress. “I’ve done a great thing. What do you think I’ve done?” she asked as she drew off her gloves.
“God knows! I’ve ceased to think!”—and Madame Grandoni stared up with her fat, empty hands on the arms of her chair.
“I’ve come on foot from the far south of London—how many miles? four or five—and I’m not a particle tired.”
“Che forza, che forza!” the old woman sighed. “She’ll knock you up completely,” she added, turning to Hyacinth with her customary compassion.
“Poor darling, she misses the carriage,” Christina remarked, passing out of the room.
Madame Grandoni’s eyes followed her and Hyacinth made out in them a considerable lassitude, a plaintive bewilderment and surrender. “Don’t you like to use cabs—I mean hansoms?” he asked, wishing to be of comfort and suggestion.
“It’s not true I miss anything; my life’s only too full,” she replied. “I lived worse than this—in my bad days.” In a moment she went on: “It’s because you’re here—she doesn’t like Assunta to come.”
“Assunta—because I’m here?” Hyacinth didn’t immediately catch her meaning.
“You must have seen her Italian maid at Medley. She has kept her and is ashamed of it. When we’re alone Assunta comes for her hat and things. But she likes you to think she waits on herself.”
“That’s a weakness—when she’s so strong! And what does Assunta think of it?” Hyacinth asked, looking at the stuffed birds in the window, the alabaster Cupid, the wax flowers on the chimney-piece, the florid antimacassars on the chairs, the sentimental engravings on the walls—in frames of papier-mâché and “composition,” some of them enveloped in pink tissue paper—and the prismatic glass pendants attached to everything.