“It wouldn’t have done any good, at the time, if you had,” Muniment returned with his natural laugh.
“Oh I felt that; my silence wasn’t accidental!” the Princess declared with due gaiety.
“I’ve only come now—since you’ve asked me the reason—because my sister has hammered at me, week after week, dinning it into me that I ought to. Oh I’ve been under the lash! If she had left me alone I wouldn’t have come.”
The Princess blushed on hearing these words, but neither with shame nor with pain; rather with the happy excitement of being spoken to in a manner so fresh and original. She had never before had a visitor who practised so racy a frankness or who indeed had so curious a story to tell. She had never before so completely failed, and her failure greatly interested her, especially as it seemed now to be turning a little to success. She had succeeded promptly with every one, and the sign of it was that every one had rendered her a monotony of homage. Even poor little Hyacinth had tried, in the beginning, to say grand things to her. This very different type of man appeared to have his thoughts fixed on anything but flowers of speech; she felt the liveliest hope that he would move further and further away from that delusion. “I remember what you asked me—what good it would do you. I couldn’t tell you then; and though I now have had a long time to turn it over I haven’t thought of it yet.”
“Oh but I hope it will do me some,” the young man said. “A fellow wants a reward when he has made a great effort.”
“It does me some,” the Princess freely answered.
“Naturally the awkward things I say amuse you. But I don’t say them for that, but just to give you an idea.”
“You give me a great many ideas. Besides, I know you already a good deal.”
“From little Robinson, I suppose,” said Muniment.
She had a pause. “More particularly from Lady Aurora.”