On Saturday afternoons Paul Muniment was able to leave his work at four o’clock, and on one of these occasions, some time after his visit to Madeira Crescent, he came into Rosy's room at about five, carefully dressed and brushed, and ruddy with the freshness of an abundant washing. He stood at the foot of her sofa, with a conscious smile, knowing how she chaffed him when his necktie was new; and after a moment, during which she ceased singing to herself as she twisted the strands of her long black hair together and let her eyes travel over his whole person, inspecting every detail, she said to him, “My dear Mr. Muniment, you are going to see the Princess.”

“Well, have you anything to say against it?” Mr. Muniment asked.

“Not a word; you know I like princesses. But you have.”

“Well, my girl, I’ll not speak it to you,” the young man rejoined. “There's something to be said against everything, if you’ll give yourself trouble enough.”

“I should be very sorry if ever anything was said against you.”

“The man's a sneak who is only and always praised,” Muniment remarked.

“If you didn't hope to be finely abused, where would be the encouragement?”

“Ay, but not with reason,” said Rosy, who always brightened to an argument.

“The better the reason, the greater the incentive to expose one's self. However, you won't hear it, if people do heave bricks at me.”

“I won't hear it? Pray, don't I hear everything? I should like any one to keep anything from me!” And Miss Muniment gave a toss of her recumbent head.

“There's a good deal I keep from you, my dear,” said Paul, rather dryly.

“You mean there are things I don't want, I don't take any trouble, to know. Indeed and indeed there are: things that I wouldn't know for the world — that no amount of persuasion would induce me, not if you was to go down on your knees. But if I did — if I did, I promise you that just as I lie here I should have them all in my pocket. Now there are others,” the young woman went on — “there are others that you will just be so good as to tell me.