Download the full version of the ebook now at ebookultra.

com

Machine Learning An Algorithmic Perspective

Second Edition Stephen Marsland

https://ebookultra.com/download/machine-learning-
an-algorithmic-perspective-second-edition-stephen-
marsland/

Explore and download more ebook at https://ebookultra.com

 Recommended digital products (PDF, EPUB, MOBI) that
you can download immediately if you are interested.

Distributed Systems An Algorithmic Approach Second Edition

Sukumar Ghosh

https://ebookultra.com/download/distributed-systems-an-algorithmic-
approach-second-edition-sukumar-ghosh/

ebookultra.com

Scala for Machine Learning Second Edition Patrick R.

Nicolas

https://ebookultra.com/download/scala-for-machine-learning-second-
edition-patrick-r-nicolas/

ebookultra.com

Discrete Algorithmic Mathematics 3rd Edition Stephen B.

Maurer

https://ebookultra.com/download/discrete-algorithmic-mathematics-3rd-
edition-stephen-b-maurer/

ebookultra.com

A First Course in Machine Learning Chapman Hall CRC

Machine Learning Pattern Recognition 2nd Edition Simon
Rogers
https://ebookultra.com/download/a-first-course-in-machine-learning-
chapman-hall-crc-machine-learning-pattern-recognition-2nd-edition-
simon-rogers/
ebookultra.com
The Intelligent Movement Machine An Ethological
Perspective on the Primate Motor System 1st Edition
Michael Graziano
https://ebookultra.com/download/the-intelligent-movement-machine-an-
ethological-perspective-on-the-primate-motor-system-1st-edition-
michael-graziano/
ebookultra.com

Python Machine Learning By Example The Easiest Way to Get

into Machine Learning 1st Edition Yuxi (Hayden) Liu

https://ebookultra.com/download/python-machine-learning-by-example-
the-easiest-way-to-get-into-machine-learning-1st-edition-yuxi-hayden-
liu/
ebookultra.com

Bayesian reasoning and machine learning Barber D.

https://ebookultra.com/download/bayesian-reasoning-and-machine-
learning-barber-d/

ebookultra.com

Minimally Invasive Spine Surgery An Algorithmic Approach

Singh

https://ebookultra.com/download/minimally-invasive-spine-surgery-an-
algorithmic-approach-singh/

ebookultra.com

Human Biology An Evolutionary and Biocultural Perspective

Second Edition Sara Stinson

https://ebookultra.com/download/human-biology-an-evolutionary-and-
biocultural-perspective-second-edition-sara-stinson/

ebookultra.com
Machine Learning An Algorithmic Perspective Second
Edition Stephen Marsland Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Stephen Marsland
ISBN(s): 9781498759786, 1498759785
File Details: PDF, 41.92 MB
Year: 2015
Language: english
Other documents randomly have
different content
 To which Hyacinth replied, “I suspect you will do what every one
else has done, namely, exactly what she wants!” Before he took
leave he said to her, “Do you know whether Paul Muniment liked the
Princess?”
Lady Aurora meditated a moment, apparently with some intensity.
“I think he considered her extraordinarily beautiful—the most
beautiful person he had ever seen.”
“Does he still believe her to be a humbug?”
“Still?” asked Lady Aurora, as if she didn’t understand.
“I mean that that was the impression apparently made upon him
last winter by my description of her.”
“Oh, I’m sure he thinks her tremendously plucky!” That was all the
satisfaction Hyacinth got just then as to Muniment’s estimate of the
Princess.
A few days afterward he returned to Madeira Crescent, in the
evening, the only time he was free, the Princess having given him a
general invitation to take tea with her. He felt that he ought to be
discreet in acting upon it, though he was not without reasons that
would have warranted him in going early and often. He had a
peculiar dread of her growing tired of him—boring herself in his
society; yet at the same time he had rather a sharp vision of her
boring herself without him, in the dull summer evenings, when even
Paddington was out of town. He wondered what she did, what
visitors dropped in, what pastimes she cultivated, what saved her
from the sudden vagary of throwing up the whole of her present
game. He remembered that there was a complete side of her life
with which he was almost unacquainted (Lady Marchant and her
daughters, at Medley, and three or four other persons who had
called while he was there, being, in his experience, the only
illustrations of it), and knew not to what extent she had, in spite of
her transformation, preserved relations with her old friends; but he
could easily imagine a day when she should discover that what she
found in Madeira Crescent was less striking than what she missed.
Going thither a second time Hyacinth perceived that he had done
her great injustice; she was full of resources, she had never been so
happy, she found time to read, to write, to commune with her piano,
and above all to think—a delightful detachment from the invasive,
vulgar, gossiping, distracting world she had known hitherto. The only
interruption to her felicity was that she received quantities of notes
from her former acquaintance, challenging her to give some account
of herself, to say what had become of her, to come and stay with
them in the country; but with these importunate missives she took a
very short way—she simply burned them, without answering. She
told Hyacinth immediately that Lady Aurora had called on her, two
days before, at an hour when she was not in, and she had
straightway addressed her, in return, an invitation to come to tea,
any evening, at eight o’clock. That was the way the people in
Madeira Crescent entertained each other (the Princess knew
everything about them now, and was eager to impart her
knowledge); and the evening, she was sure, would be much more
convenient to Lady Aurora, whose days were filled with good works,
peregrinations of charity. Her ladyship arrived ten minutes after
Hyacinth; she told the Princess that her invitation had been
expressed in a manner so irresistible that she was unwilling to wait
more than a day to respond. She was introduced to Madame
Grandoni, and tea was immediately served; Hyacinth being gratefully
conscious the while of the super-subtle way in which Lady Aurora
forbore to appear bewildered at meeting him in such society. She
knew he frequented it, and she had been witness of his encounter
with the Princess in Audley Court; but it might have startled her to
have ocular evidence of the footing on which he stood. Everything
the Princess did or said, at this time, had for effect, whatever its
purpose, to make her seem more rare and fine; and she had seldom
given him greater pleasure than by the exquisite art she put forward
to win Lady Aurora’s confidence, to place herself under the pure and
elevating influence of the noble spinster. She made herself small and
simple; she spoke of her own little aspirations and efforts; she
appealed and persuaded; she laid her white hand on Lady Aurora’s,
gazing at her with an interest which was evidently deeply sincere,
but which, all the same, derived half its effect from the contrast
between the quality of her beauty, the whole air of her person, and
the hard, dreary problems of misery and crime. It was touching, and
Lady Aurora was touched; that was very evident as they sat together
on the sofa, after tea, and the Princess protested that she only
wanted to know what her new friend was doing—what she had done
for years—in order that she might go and do likewise. She asked
personal questions with a directness that was sometimes
embarrassing to the subject—Hyacinth had seen that habit in her
from the first—and Lady Aurora, though she was charmed and
excited, was not quite comfortable at being so publicly probed and
sounded. The public was formed of Madame Grandoni and Hyacinth;
but the old lady (whose intercourse with the visitor had consisted
almost wholly of watching her with a quiet, speculative anxiety)
presently shuffled away, and was heard, through the thin partitions
that prevailed in Madeira Crescent, to ascend to her own apartment.
It seemed to Hyacinth that he ought also, in delicacy, to retire, and
this was his intention, from one moment to the other; to him,
certainly (and the second time she met him), Lady Aurora had made
as much of her confession as he had a right to look for. After that
one little flash of egotism he had never again heard her allude to her
own feelings or circumstances.
“Do you stay in town, like this, at such a season, on purpose to
attend to your work?” the Princess asked; and there was something
archly rueful in the tone in which she made this inquiry, as if it cost
her just a pang to find that in taking such a line she herself had not
been so original as she hoped. “Mr Robinson has told me about your
big house in Belgrave Square—you must let me come and see you
there. Nothing would make me so happy as that you should allow
me to help you a little—how little soever. Do you like to be helped,
or do you like to go alone? Are you very independent, or do you
need to look up, to cling, to lean upon some one? Excuse me if I ask
impertinent questions; we speak that way—rather, you know—in
Rome, where I have spent a large part of my life. That idea of your
being there alone in your great dull house, with all your charities and
devotions, makes a kind of picture in my mind; it’s quaint and
touching, like something in some English novel. Englishwomen are
so accomplished, are they not? I am really a foreigner, you know,
and though I have lived here a while it takes one some time to find
those things out au juste. Therefore, is your work for the people
only one of your occupations, or is it everything, does it absorb your
whole life? That’s what I should like it to be for me! Do your family
like you to throw yourself into all this, or have you had to brave a
certain amount of ridicule? I dare say you have; that’s where you
English are strong, in braving ridicule. They have to do it so often,
haven’t they? I don’t know whether I could do it. I never tried; but
with you I would brave anything. Are your family clever and
sympathetic? No? the kind of thing that one’s family generally is? Ah,
well, dear lady, we must make a little family together. Are you
encouraged or disgusted? Do you go on doggedly, or have you any
faith, any great idea, that lifts you up? Are you religious, now, par
exemple? Do you do your work in connection with any
ecclesiasticism, any missions, or priests or sisters? I’m a Catholic,
you know—but so little! I shouldn’t mind in the least joining hands
with any one who is really doing anything. I express myself
awkwardly, but perhaps you know what I mean. Possibly you don’t
know that I am one of those who believe that a great social
cataclysm is destined to take place, and that it can’t make things
worse than they are already. I believe, in a word, in the people
doing something for themselves (the others will never do anything
for them), and I am quite willing to help them. If that shocks you I
shall be immensely disappointed, because there is something in the
impression you make on me that seems to say that you haven’t the
usual prejudices, and that if certain things were to happen you
wouldn’t be afraid. You are shy, are you not?—but you are not
timorous. I suppose that if you thought the inequalities and
oppressions and miseries which now exist were a necessary part of
life, and were going on for ever, you wouldn’t be interested in those
people over the river (the bedridden girl and her brother, I mean);
because Mr Robinson tells me that they are advanced socialists—or
at least the brother is. Perhaps you’ll say that you don’t care for him;
the sister, to your mind, being the remarkable one. She is, indeed, a
perfect little femme du monde—she talks so much better than most
of the people in society. I hope you don’t mind my saying that,
because I have an idea that you are not in society. You can imagine
whether I am! Haven’t you judged it, like me, condemned it, and
given it up? Are you not sick of the egotism, the snobbery, the
meanness, the frivolity, the immorality, the hypocrisy? Isn’t there a
great resemblance in our situation? I don’t mean in our nature, for
you are far better than I shall ever be. Aren’t you quite divinely
good? When I see a woman of your sort (not that I often do!) I try
to be a little less bad. You have helped hundreds, thousands, of
people; you must help me!”
These remarks, which I have strung together, did not, of course,
fall from the Princess’s lips in an uninterrupted stream; they were
arrested and interspersed by frequent inarticulate responses and
embarrassed protests. Lady Aurora shrank from them even while
they gratified her, blinking and fidgeting in the brilliant, direct light of
her hostess’s attentions. I need not repeat her answers, the more so
as they none of them arrived at completion, but passed away into
nervous laughter and averted looks, the latter directed at the ceiling,
the floor, the windows, and appearing to constitute a kind of
entreaty to some occult or supernatural power that the conversation
should become more impersonal. In reply to the Princess’s allusion
to the convictions prevailing in the Muniment family, she said that
the brother and sister thought differently about public questions, but
were of the same mind with regard to persons of the upper class
taking an interest in the working people, attempting to enter into
their life: they held it was a great mistake. At this information the
Princess looked much disappointed; she wished to know if the
Muniments thought it was impossible to do them any good. “Oh, I
mean a mistake from our point of view,” said Lady Aurora. “They
wouldn’t do it in our place; they think we had much better occupy
ourselves with our own pleasures.” And as the Princess stared, not
comprehending, she went on: “Rosy thinks we have a right to our
own pleasures under all circumstances, no matter how badly off the
poor may be; and her brother takes the ground that we will not have
them long, and that in view of what may happen we are great fools
not to make the most of them.”
“I see, I see. That is very strong,” the Princess murmured, in a
tone of high appreciation.
“I dare say. But all the same, whatever is going to come, one must
do something.”
“You do think, then, that something is going to come?” said the
Princess.
“Oh, immense changes, I dare say. But I don’t belong to anything,
you know.”
The Princess hesitated a moment. “No more do I. But many
people do. Mr Robinson, for instance.” And she gave Hyacinth a
familiar smile.
“Oh, if the changes depend on me!” the young man exclaimed,
blushing.
“They won’t set the Thames on fire—I quite agree to that!”
Lady Aurora had the manner of not considering that she had a
warrant for going into the question of Hyacinth’s affiliations; so she
stared abstractly at the piano and in a moment remarked to the
Princess, “I am sure you play awfully well; I should like so much to
hear you.”
Hyacinth felt that their hostess thought this banal. She had not
asked Lady Aurora to spend the evening with her simply that they
should fall back on the resources of the vulgar. Nevertheless, she
replied with perfect good-nature that she should be delighted to
play; only there was a thing she should like much better, namely,
that Lady Aurora should narrate her life.
“Oh, don’t talk about mine; yours, yours!” her ladyship cried,
colouring with eagerness and, for the first time since her arrival,
indulging in the free gesture of laying her hand upon that of the
Princess.
“With so many narratives in the air, I certainly had better take
myself off,” said Hyacinth, and the Princess offered no opposition to
his departure. She and Lady Aurora were evidently on the point of
striking up a tremendous intimacy, and as he turned this idea over,
walking away, it made him sad, for strange, vague reasons, which he
could not have expressed.
 XXXV
The Sunday following this occasion Hyacinth spent almost entirely
with the Muniments, with whom, since his return to his work, he had
been able to have no long, fraternising talk, of the kind that had
marked their earlier relations. The present, however, was a happy
day; it refreshed exceedingly the sentiments with which he now
regarded the inscrutable Paul. The warm, bright September weather
gilded even the dinginess of Audley Court, and while, in the
morning, Rosy’s brother and their visitor sat beside her sofa, the trio
amused themselves with discussing a dozen different plans for giving
a festive turn to the day. There had been moments, in the last six
months, when Hyacinth had the sense that he should never again be
able to enter into such ideas as that, and these moments had been
connected with the strange perversion taking place in his mental
image of the man whose hardness (of course he was obliged to be
hard) he had never expected to see turned upon a passionate
admirer. But now, for the hour at least, the darkness had cleared
away, and Paul’s company was in itself a comfortable, inspiring
influence. He had never been kinder, jollier, safer, as it were; it had
never appeared more desirable to hold fast to him and trust him.
Less than ever would an observer have guessed there was a reason
why the two young men might have winced as they looked at each
other. Rosy naturally took part in the question debated between her
companions—the question whether they should limit their excursion
to a walk in Hyde Park; should embark at Lambeth pier on the penny
steamer, which would convey them to Greenwich; or should start
presently for Waterloo station and go thence by train to Hampton
Court. Miss Muniment had visited none of these places, but she
contributed largely to the discussion, for which she seemed perfectly
qualified; talked about the crowd on the steamer, and the
inconvenience arising from drunken persons on the return, quite as
if she had suffered from these drawbacks; said that the view from
the hill at Greenwich was terribly smoky, and at that season the
fashionable world—half the attraction, of course—was wholly absent
from Hyde Park; and expressed strong views in favour of Wolsey’s
old palace, with whose history she appeared intimately acquainted.
She threw herself into her brother’s holiday with eagerness and glee,
and Hyacinth marvelled again at the stoicism of the hard, bright
creature, polished, as it were, by pain, whose imagination appeared
never to concern itself with her own privations, so that she could lie
in her close little room the whole golden afternoon, without bursting
into sobs as she saw the western sunbeams slant upon the shabby,
ugly, familiar paper of her wall and thought of the far-off fields and
gardens which she should never see. She talked immensely of the
Princess, for whose beauty, grace and benevolence she could find no
sufficient praise; declaring that of all the fair faces that had ever
hung over her couch (and Rosy spoke as from immense
opportunities for comparison) she had far the noblest and most
refreshing. She seemed to make a kind of light in the room and to
leave it behind her after she had gone. Rosy could call up her image
as she could hum a tune she had heard, and she expressed in her
quaint, particular way how, as she lay there in the quiet hours, she
repeated over to herself the beautiful air. The Princess might be
anything, she might be royal or imperial, and Rosy was well aware
how little she should complain of the dullness of her life when such
apparitions as that could pop in any day. She made a difference in
the place—it gave it a kind of finish for her to have come there; if it
was good enough for a princess, it was good enough for her, and
she hoped she shouldn’t hear again of Paul’s wishing her to move
out of a room with which she should have henceforth such delightful
associations. The Princess had found her way to Audley Court, and
perhaps she wouldn’t find it to another lodging—they couldn’t expect
her to follow them about London at their pleasure; and at any rate
she had evidently been very much struck with the little room, so that
if they were quiet and patient who could say but the fancy would
take her to send them a bit of carpet, or a picture, or even a mirror
with a gilt frame, to make it a bit more tasteful? Rosy’s transitions
from pure enthusiasm to the imaginative calculation of benefit were
performed with a serenity peculiar to herself. Her chatter had so
much spirit and point that it always commanded attention, but to-
day Hyacinth was less tolerant of it than usual, because so long as it
lasted Muniment held his tongue, and what he had been anxious
about was much more Paul’s impression of the Princess. Rosy made
no remark to him on the monopoly he had so long enjoyed of this
wonderful lady; she had always had the manner of a kind of
indulgent incredulity about Hyacinth’s social adventures, and he saw
the day might easily come when she would begin to talk of the
Princess as if she herself had been the first to discover her. She had
much to say, however, about the nature of the acquaintance Lady
Aurora had formed with her, and she was mainly occupied with the
glory she had drawn upon herself by bringing two such exalted
persons together. She fancied them alluding, in the great world, to
the occasion on which ‘we first met, at Miss Muniment’s, you know’;
and she related how Lady Aurora, who had been in Audley Court the
day before, had declared that she owed her a debt she could never
repay. The two ladies had liked each other more, almost, than they
liked any one; and wasn’t it a rare picture to think of them moving
hand in hand, like twin roses, through the bright upper air?
Muniment inquired, in rather a coarse, unsympathetic way, what the
mischief she ever wanted of her; which led Hyacinth to demand in
return, “What do you mean? What does who want of whom?”
“What does the beauty want of our poor lady? She has a totally
different stamp. I don’t know much about women, but I can see
that.”
“How do you mean—a different stamp? They both have the stamp
of their rank!” cried Rosy.
“Who can ever tell what women want, at any time?” Hyacinth
said, with the off-handedness of a man of the world.
“Well, my boy, if you don’t know any more than I, you disappoint
me! Perhaps if we wait long enough she will tell us some day
herself.”
 “Tell you what she wants of Lady Aurora?”
“I don’t mind about Lady Aurora so much; but what in the name
of long journeys does she want with us?”
“Don’t you think you’re worth a long journey?” Rosy asked, gaily.
“If you were not my brother, which is handy for seeing you, and I
were not confined to my sofa, I would go from one end of England
to the other to make your acquaintance! He’s in love with the
Princess,” she went on, to Hyacinth, “and he asks those senseless
questions to cover it up. What does any one want of anything?”
It was decided, at last, that the two young men should go down
to Greenwich, and after they had partaken of bread and cheese with
Rosy they embarked on a penny steamer. The boat was densely
crowded, and they leaned, rather squeezed together, in the fore part
of it, against the rail of the deck, and watched the big black fringe of
the yellow stream. The river was always fascinating to Hyacinth. The
mystified entertainment which, as a child, he had found in all the
aspects of London came back to him from the murky scenery of its
banks and the sordid agitation of its bosom: the great arches and
pillars of the bridges, where the water rushed, and the funnels
tipped, and sounds made an echo, and there seemed an
overhanging of interminable processions; the miles of ugly wharves
and warehouses; the lean protrusions of chimney, mast, and crane;
the painted signs of grimy industries, staring from shore to shore;
the strange, flat, obstructive barges, straining and bumping on some
business as to which everything was vague but that it was
remarkably dirty; the clumsy coasters and colliers, which thickened
as one went down; the small, loafing boats, whose occupants,
somehow, looking up from their oars at the steamer, as they rocked
in the oily undulations of its wake, appeared profane and sarcastic;
in short, all the grinding, puffing, smoking, splashing activity of the
turbid flood. In the good-natured crowd, amid the fumes of vile
tobacco, beneath the shower of sooty particles, and to the
accompaniment of a bagpipe of a dingy Highlander, who sketched
occasionally a smothered reel, Hyacinth forbore to speak to his
companion of what he had most at heart; but later, as they lay on
the brown, crushed grass, on one of the slopes of Greenwich Park,
and saw the river stretch away and shine beyond the pompous
colonnades of the hospital, he asked him whether there was any
truth in what Rosy had said about his being sweet on their friend the
Princess. He said ‘their friend’ on purpose, speaking as if, now that
she had been twice to Audley Court, Muniment might be regarded as
knowing her almost as well as he himself did. He wished to conjure
away the idea that he was jealous of Paul, and if he desired
information on the point I have mentioned this was because it still
made him almost as uncomfortable as it had done at first that his
comrade should take the scoffing view. He didn’t easily see such a
fellow as Muniment wheel about from one day to the other, but he
had been present at the most exquisite exhibition he had ever
observed the Princess make of that divine power of conciliation
which was not perhaps in social intercourse the art she chiefly
exercised but was certainly the most wonderful of her secrets, and it
would be remarkable indeed that a sane young man should not have
been affected by it. It was familiar to Hyacinth that Muniment was
not easily touched by women, but this might perfectly have been the
case without detriment to the Princess’s ability to work a miracle.
The companions had wandered through the great halls and courts of
the hospital; had gazed up at the glories of the famous painted
chamber and admired the long and lurid series of the naval victories
of England—Muniment remarking to his friend that he supposed he
had seen the match to all that in foreign parts, offensive little
travelled beggar that he was. They had not ordered a fish-dinner
either at the ‘Trafalgar’ or the ‘Ship’ (having a frugal vision of tea
and shrimps with Rosy, on their return), but they had laboured up
and down the steep undulations of the shabby, charming park; made
advances to the tame deer and seen them amble foolishly away;
watched the young of both sexes, hilarious and red in the face, roll
in promiscuous entanglement over the slopes; gazed at the little
brick observatory, perched on one of the knolls, which sets the time
of English history and in which Hyacinth could see that his
companion took a kind of technical interest; wandered out of one of
the upper gates and admired the trimness of the little villas at
Blackheath, where Muniment declared that it was his idea of
supreme social success to be able to live. He pointed out two or
three small, semi-detached houses, faced with stucco, and with
‘Mortimer Lodge’ or ‘The Sycamores’ inscribed upon the gate-posts,
and Hyacinth guessed that these were the sort of place where he
would like to end his days—in high, pure air, with a genteel window
for Rosy’s couch and a cheerful view of suburban excursions. It was
when they came back into the park that, being rather hot and a little
satiated, they stretched themselves under a tree and Hyacinth
yielded to his curiosity.
“Sweet on her—sweet on her, my boy!” said Muniment. “I might
as well be sweet on the dome of St Paul’s, which I just make out off
there.”
“The dome of St Paul’s doesn’t come to see you, and doesn’t ask
you to return the visit.”
“Oh, I don’t return visits—I’ve got a lot of jobs of my own to do. If
I don’t put myself out for the Princess, isn’t that a sufficient answer
to your question?”
“I’m by no means sure,” said Hyacinth. “If you went to see her,
simply and civilly, because she asked you, I shouldn’t regard it as a
proof that you had taken a fancy to her. Your hanging off is more
suspicious; it may mean that you don’t trust yourself—that you are
in danger of falling in love if you go in for a more intimate
acquaintance.”
“It’s a rum job, your wanting me to make up to her. I shouldn’t
think it would suit your book,” Muniment rejoined, staring at the sky,
with his hands clasped under his head.
“Do you suppose I’m afraid of you?” his companion asked.
“Besides,” Hyacinth added in a moment, “why the devil should I
care, now?”
Muniment, for a little, made no rejoinder; he turned over on his
side, and with his arm resting on the ground leaned his head on his
hand. Hyacinth felt his eyes on his face, but he also felt himself
colouring, and didn’t meet them. He had taken a private vow never
to indulge, to Muniment, in certain inauspicious references, and the
words he had just spoken had slipped out of his mouth too easily.
“What do you mean by that?” Paul demanded, at last; and when
Hyacinth looked at him he saw nothing but his companion’s strong,
fresh, irresponsible face. Muniment, before speaking, had had time
to guess what he meant by it.
Suddenly, an impulse that he had never known before, or rather
that he had always resisted, took possession of him. There was a
mystery which it concerned his happiness to clear up, and he
became unconscious of his scruples, of his pride, of the strength that
he had believed to be in him—the strength for going through his
work and passing away without a look behind. He sat forward on the
grass, with his arms round his knees, and bent upon Muniment a
face lighted up by his difficulties. For a minute the two men’s eyes
met with extreme clearness, and then Hyacinth exclaimed, “What an
extraordinary fellow you are!”
“You’ve hit it there!” said Muniment, smiling.
“I don’t want to make a scene, or work on your feelings, but how
will you like it when I’m strung up on the gallows?”
“You mean for Hoffendahl’s job? That’s what you were alluding to
just now?” Muniment lay there, in the same attitude, chewing a long
blade of dry grass, which he held to his lips with his free hand.
“I didn’t mean to speak of it; but after all, why shouldn’t it come
up? Naturally, I have thought of it a good deal.”
“What good does that do?” Muniment returned. “I hoped you
didn’t, and I noticed you never spoke of it. You don’t like it; you
would rather throw it up,” he added.
There was not in his voice the faintest note of irony or contempt,
no sign whatever that he passed judgment on such a tendency. He
spoke in a quiet, human, memorising manner, as if it had originally
quite entered into his thought to allow for weak regrets.
Nevertheless the complete reasonableness of his tone itself cast a
chill on his companion’s spirit; it was like the touch of a hand at once
very firm and very soft, but strangely cold.
 “I don’t want in the least to throw the business up, but did you
suppose I liked it?” Hyacinth asked, with rather a forced laugh.
“My dear fellow, how could I tell? You like a lot of things I don’t.
You like excitement and emotion and change, you like remarkable
sensations, whereas I go in for a holy calm, for sweet repose.”
“If you object, for yourself, to change, and are so fond of still
waters, why have you associated yourself with a revolutionary
movement?” Hyacinth demanded, with a little air of making rather a
good point.
“Just for that reason!” Muniment answered, with a smile. “Isn’t
our revolutionary movement as quiet as the grave? Who knows, who
suspects, anything like the full extent of it?”
“I see—you take only the quiet parts!”
In speaking these words Hyacinth had had no derisive intention,
but a moment later he flushed with the sense that they had a
sufficiently petty sound. Muniment, however, appeared to see no
offence in them, and it was in the gentlest, most suggestive way, as
if he had been thinking over what might comfort his comrade, that
he replied, “There’s one thing you ought to remember—that it’s quite
on the cards it may never come off.”
“I don’t desire that reminder,” Hyacinth said; “and, moreover, you
must let me say that, somehow, I don’t easily fancy you mixed up
with things that don’t come off. Anything you have to do with will
come off, I think.”
Muniment reflected a moment, as if his little companion were
charmingly ingenious. “Surely, I have nothing to do with this idea of
Hoffendahl’s.”
“With the execution, perhaps not; but how about the conception?
You seemed to me to have a great deal to do with it the night you
took me to see him.”
Muniment changed his position, raising himself, and in a moment
he was seated, Turk-fashion, beside his mate. He put his arm over
his shoulder and held him, studying his face; and then, in the
kindest manner in the world, he remarked, “There are three or four
definite chances in your favour.”
“I don’t want comfort, you know,” said Hyacinth, with his eyes on
the distant atmospheric mixture that represented London.
“What the devil do you want?” Muniment asked, still holding him,
and with perfect good-humour.
“Well, to get inside of you a little; to know how a chap feels when
he’s going to part with his best friend.”
“To part with him?” Muniment repeated.
“I mean, putting it at the worst.”
“I should think you would know by yourself, if you’re going to part
with me!”
At this Hyacinth prostrated himself, tumbled over on the grass, on
his face, which he buried in his arms. He remained in this attitude,
saying nothing, for a long time; and while he lay there he thought,
with a sudden, quick flood of association, of many strange things.
Most of all, he had the sense of the brilliant, charming day; the
warm stillness, touched with cries of amusement; the sweetness of
loafing there, in an interval of work, with a friend who was a
tremendously fine fellow, even if he didn’t understand the
inexpressible. Muniment also kept silent, and Hyacinth perceived
that he was unaffectedly puzzled. He wanted now to relieve him, so
that he pulled himself together again and turned round, saying the
first thing he could think of, in relation to the general subject of their
conversation, that would carry them away from the personal
question: “I have asked you before, and you have told me, but
somehow I have never quite grasped it (so I just touch on the
matter again), exactly what good you think it will do.”
“This idea of Hoffendahl’s? You must remember that as yet we
know only very vaguely what it is. It is difficult, therefore, to
measure closely the importance it may have, and I don’t think I have
ever, in talking with you, pretended to fix that importance. I don’t
suppose it will matter immensely whether your own engagement is
carried out or not; but if it is it will have been a detail in a scheme of
which the general effect will be decidedly useful. I believe, and you
pretend to believe, though I am not sure you do, in the advent of
the democracy. It will help the democracy to get possession that the
classes that keep them down shall be admonished from time to time
that they have a very definite and very determined intention of
doing so. An immense deal will depend upon that. Hoffendahl is a
capital admonisher.”
Hyacinth listened to this explanation with an expression of interest
that was not feigned; and after a moment he rejoined, “When you
say you believe in the democracy, I take for granted you mean you
positively wish for their coming into power, as I have always
supposed. Now what I really have never understood is this—why you
should desire to put forward a lot of people whom you regard,
almost without exception, as donkeys.”
“Ah, my dear lad,” laughed Muniment, “when one undertakes to
meddle in human affairs one must deal with human material. The
upper classes have the longest ears.”
“I have heard you say that you were working for an equality in
human conditions, to abolish the immemorial inequality. What you
want, then, for all mankind is a similar nuance of asininity.”
“That’s very clever; did you pick it up in France? The low tone of
our fellow-mortals is a result of bad conditions; it is the conditions I
want to alter. When those that have no start to speak of have a
good one, it is but fair to infer that they will go further. I want to try
them, you know.”
“But why equality?” Hyacinth asked. “Somehow, that word doesn’t
say so much to me as it used to. Inequality—inequality! I don’t know
whether it’s by dint of repeating it over to myself, but that doesn’t
shock me as it used.”
“They didn’t put you up to that in France, I’m sure!” Muniment
exclaimed. “Your point of view has changed; you have risen in the
world.”
“Risen? Good God, what have I risen to?”
 “True enough; you were always a bloated little swell!” And
Muniment gave his young friend a sociable slap on the back. There
was a momentary bitterness in its being imputed to such a one as
Hyacinth, even in joke, that he had taken sides with the fortunate
ones of the earth, and he had it on his tongue’s end to ask his friend
if he had never guessed what his proud titles were—the bastard of a
murderess, spawned in a gutter, out of which he had been picked by
a sewing-girl. But his life-long reserve on this point was a habit not
easily broken, and before such an inquiry could flash through it
Muniment had gone on: “If you’ve ceased to believe we can do
anything, it will be rather awkward, you know.”
“I don’t know what I believe, God help me!” Hyacinth remarked, in
a tone of an effect so lugubrious that Paul gave one of his longest,
most boyish-sounding laughs. And he added, “I don’t want you to
think I have ceased to care for the people. What am I but one of the
poorest and meanest of them?”
“You, my boy? You’re a duke in disguise, and so I thought the first
time I ever saw you. That night I took you to Hoffendahl you had a
little way with you that made me forget it; I mean that your disguise
happened to be better than usual. As regards caring for the people,
there’s surely no obligation at all,” Muniment continued. “I wouldn’t
if I could help it—I promise you that. It all depends on what you see.
The way I’ve used my eyes in this abominable metropolis has led to
my seeing that present arrangements won’t do. They won’t do,” he
repeated, placidly.
“Yes, I see that, too,” said Hyacinth, with the same dolefulness
that had marked his tone a moment before—a dolefulness begotten
of the rather helpless sense that, whatever he saw, he saw (and this
was always the case) so many other things beside. He saw the
immeasurable misery of the people, and yet he saw all that had
been, as it were, rescued and redeemed from it: the treasures, the
felicities, the splendours, the successes, of the world. All this took
the form, sometimes, to his imagination, of a vast, vague, dazzling
presence, an irradiation of light from objects undefined, mixed with
the atmosphere of Paris and of Venice. He presently added that a
hundred things Muniment had told him about the foul horrors of the
worst districts of London, pictures of incredible shame and suffering
that he had put before him, came back to him now, with the
memory of the passion they had kindled at the time.
“Oh, I don’t want you to go by what I have told you; I want you
to go by what you have seen yourself. I remember there were things
you told me that weren’t bad in their way.” And at this Paul
Muniment sprang to his feet, as if their conversation had drawn to
an end, or they must at all events be thinking of their homeward
way. Hyacinth got up, too, while his companion stood there.
Muniment was looking off toward London, with a face that expressed
all the healthy singleness of his vision. Suddenly Paul remarked, as if
it occurred to him to complete, or at any rate confirm, the
declaration he had made a short time before, “Yes, I don’t believe in
the millennium, but I do believe in the democracy.”
The young man, as he spoke these words, struck his comrade as
such a fine embodiment of the spirit of the people; he stood there,
in his powerful, sturdy newness, with such an air of having learnt
what he had learnt and of good-nature that had purposes in it, that
our hero felt the simple inrush of his old, frequent pride at having a
person of that promise, a nature of that capacity, for a friend. He
passed his hand into Muniment’s arm and said, with an
imperceptible tremor in his voice, “It’s no use your saying I’m not to
go by what you tell me. I would go by what you tell me, anywhere.
There’s no awkwardness to speak of. I don’t know that I believe
exactly what you believe, but I believe in you, and doesn’t that come
to the same thing?”
Muniment evidently appreciated the cordiality and candour of this
little tribute, and the way he showed it was by a movement of his
arm, to check his companion, before they started to leave the spot,
and by looking down at him with a certain anxiety of friendliness. “I
should never have taken you to Hoffendahl if I hadn’t thought you
would jump at the job. It was that flaring little oration of yours, at
the club, when you floored Delancey for saying you were afraid, that
put me up to it.”
 “I did jump at it—upon my word I did; and it was just what I was
looking for. That’s all correct!” said Hyacinth, cheerfully, as they went
forward. There was a strain of heroism in these words—of heroism
of which the sense was not conveyed to Muniment by a vibration in
their interlocked arms. Hyacinth did not make the reflection that he
was infernally literal; he dismissed the sentimental problem that had
bothered him; he condoned, excused, admired—he merged himself,
resting happy for the time in the consciousness that Paul was a
grand fellow, that friendship was a purer feeling than love, and that
there was an immense deal of affection between them. He did not
even observe at that moment that it was preponderantly on his own
side.
 XXXVI
A certain Sunday in November, more than three months after she
had gone to live in Madeira Crescent, was so important an occasion
for the Princess Casamassima that I must give as complete an
account of it as the limits of my space will allow. Early in the
afternoon a loud peal from her door-knocker came to her ear; it had
a sound of resolution, almost of defiance, which made her look up
from her book and listen. She was sitting by the fire, alone, with a
volume of a heavy work on Labour and Capital in her hand. It was
not yet four o’clock, but she had had candles for an hour; a dense
brown fog made the daylight impure, without suggesting an answer
to the question whether the scheme of nature had been to veil or to
deepen the sabbatical dreariness. She was not tired of Madeira
Crescent—such an idea she would indignantly have repudiated; but
the prospect of a visitor was rather pleasant to her—the possibility
even of his being an ambassador, or a cabinet minister, or another of
the eminent personages with whom she had associated before
embracing the ascetic life. They had not knocked at her present door
hitherto in any great numbers, for more reasons than one; they
were out of town, and she had taken pains to diffuse the belief that
she had left England. If the impression prevailed, it was exactly the
impression she had desired; she forgot this fact whenever she felt a
certain surprise, even, it may be, a certain irritation, in perceiving
that people were not taking the way to Madeira Crescent. She was
making the discovery, in which she had had many predecessors, that
in London it is only too possible to hide one’s self. It was very much
in that fashion that Godfrey Sholto was in the habit of announcing
himself, when he reappeared after the intervals she explicitly
imposed upon him; there was a kind of artlessness, for so world-
worn a personage, in the point he made of showing that he knocked
with confidence, that he had as good a right as any other. This
afternoon she was ready to accept a visit from him: she was
perfectly detached from the shallow, frivolous world in which he
lived, but there was still a freshness in her renunciation which
coveted reminders and enjoyed comparisons; he would prove to her
how right she had been to do exactly what she was doing. It did not
occur to her that Hyacinth Robinson might be at her door, for it was
understood between them that, except by special appointment, he
was to come to see her only in the evening. She heard in the hail,
when the servant arrived, a voice that she failed to recognise; but in
a moment the door of the room was thrown open and the name of
Mr Muniment was pronounced. It may be said at once that she felt
great pleasure in hearing it, for she had both wished to see more of
Hyacinth’s extraordinary friend and had given him up, so little likely
had it begun to appear that he would put himself out for her. She
had been glad he wouldn’t come, as she had told Hyacinth three
months before; but now that he had come she was still more glad.
Presently he was sitting opposite to her, on the other side of the
fire, with his big foot crossed over his big knee, his large, gloved
hands fumbling with each other, drawing and smoothing the gloves
(of very red, new-looking dog-skin) in places, as if they hurt him. So
far as the size of his extremities, and even his attitude and
movement, went, he might have belonged to her former circle. With
the details of his dress remaining vague in the lamp-light, which
threw into relief mainly his powerful, important head, he might have
been one of the most considerable men she had ever known. The
first thing she said to him was that she wondered extremely what
had brought him at last to come to see her: the idea, when she
proposed it, evidently had so little attraction for him. She had only
seen him once since then—the day she met him coming into Audley
Court as she was leaving it, after a visit to his sister—and, as he
probably remembered, she had not on that occasion repeated her
invitation.
“It wouldn’t have done any good, at the time, if you had,”
Muniment rejoined, with his natural laugh.
 “Oh, I felt that; my silence wasn’t accidental!” the Princess
exclaimed, joining in his merriment.
“I have only come now—since you have asked me the reason—
because my sister 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 not with shame
or 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 sweet things to her. This very different type of man
appeared to have his thoughts fixed on anything but sweetness; she
felt the liveliest hope that he would move further and further away
from it. “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,” said Paul. “A fellow wants a
reward, when he has made a great effort.”
“It does me some,” the Princess remarked, gaily.
“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.
The Princess hesitated. “More particularly from Lady Aurora.”
“Oh, she doesn’t know much about me!” the young man
exclaimed.
“It’s a pity you say that, because she likes you.”
 “Yes, she likes me,” Muniment replied, serenely.
Again the Princess hesitated. “And I hope you like her.”
“Ay, she’s a dear old girl!”
The Princess reflected that her visitor was not a gentleman, like
Hyacinth; but this made no difference in her present attitude. The
expectation that he would be a gentleman had had nothing to do
with her interest in him; that, in fact, had rested largely on the
supposition that he had a rich plebeian strain. “I don’t know that
there is any one in the world I envy so much,” she remarked; an
observation which her visitor received in silence. “Better than any
one I have ever met she has solved the problem—which, if we are
wise, we all try to solve, don’t we?—of getting out of herself. She
has got out of herself more perfectly than any one I have ever
known. She has merged herself in the passion of doing something
for others. That’s why I envy her,” said the Princess, with an
explanatory smile, as if perhaps he didn’t understand her.
“It’s an amusement, like any other,” said Paul Muniment.
“Ah, not like any other! It carries light into dark places; it makes a
great many wretched people considerably less wretched.”
“How many, eh?” asked the young man, not exactly as if he
wished to dispute, but as if it were always in him to enjoy an
argument.
The Princess wondered why he should desire to argue at Lady
Aurora’s expense. “Well, one who is very near to you, to begin with.”
“Oh, she’s kind, most kind; it’s altogether wonderful. But Rosy
makes her considerably less wretched,” Paul Muniment rejoined.
“Very likely, of course; and so she does me.”
“May I inquire what you are wretched about?” Muniment went on.
“About nothing at all. That’s the worst of it. But I am much
happier now than I have ever been.”
“Is that also about nothing?”
“No, about a sort of change that has taken place in my life. I have
been able to do some little things.”
 “For the poor, I suppose you mean. Do you refer to the presents
you have made to Rosy?” the young man inquired.
“The presents?” The Princess appeared not to remember. “Oh,
those are trifles. It isn’t anything one has been able to give; it’s
some talks one has had, some convictions one has arrived at.”
“Convictions are a source of very innocent pleasure,” said the
young man, smiling at his interlocutress with his bold, pleasant eyes,
which seemed to project their glance further than any she had seen.
“Having them is nothing. It’s the acting on them,” the Princess
replied.
“Yes; that doubtless, too, is good.” He continued to look at her
peacefully, as if he liked to consider that this might be what she had
asked him to come for. He said nothing more, and she went on—
“It’s far better, of course, when one is a man.”
“I don’t know. Women do pretty well what they like. My sister and
you have managed, between you, to bring me to this.”
“It’s more your sister, I suspect, than I. But why, after all, should
you have disliked so much to come?”
“Well, since you ask me,” said Paul Muniment, “I will tell you
frankly, though I don’t mean it uncivilly, that I don’t know what to
make of you.”
“Most people don’t,” returned the Princess. “But they usually take
the risk.”
“Ah, well, I’m the most prudent of men.”
“I was sure of it; that is one of the reasons why I wanted to know
you. I know what some of your ideas are—Hyacinth Robinson has
told me; and the source of my interest in them is partly the fact that
you consider very carefully what you attempt.”
“That I do—I do,” said Muniment, simply.
The tone in which he said this would have been almost ignoble, as
regards a kind of northern canniness which it expressed, had it not
been corrected by the character of his face, his youth and strength,
and his military eye. The Princess recognised both the shrewdness
and the latent audacity as she rejoined, “To do anything with you
would be very safe. It would be sure to succeed.”
“That’s what poor Hyacinth thinks,” said Paul Muniment.
The Princess wondered a little that he could allude in that light
tone to the faith their young friend had placed in him, considering
the consequences such a trustfulness might yet have; but this
curious mixture of qualities could only make her visitor, as a tribune
of the people, more interesting to her. She abstained for the moment
from touching on the subject of Hyacinth’s peculiar position, and
only said, “Hasn’t he told you about me? Hasn’t he explained me a
little?”
“Oh, his explanations are grand!” Muniment exclaimed, hilariously.
“He’s fine sport when he talks about you.”
“Don’t betray him,” said the Princess, gently.
“There’s nothing to betray. You would be the first to admire it if
you were there. Besides, I don’t betray,” the young man added.
“I love him very much,” said the Princess; and it would have been
impossible for the most impudent cynic to smile at the manner in
which she made the declaration.
Paul accepted it respectfully. “He’s a sweet little lad, and, putting
her ladyship aside, quite the light of our home.”
There was a short pause after this exchange of amenities, which
the Princess terminated by inquiring, “Wouldn’t some one else do his
work quite as well?”
“His work? Why, I’m told he’s a master-hand.”
“Oh, I don’t mean his bookbinding.” Then the Princess added, “I
don’t know whether you know it, but I am in correspondence with
Hoffendahl. I am acquainted with many of our most important men.”
“Yes, I know it. Hyacinth has told me. Do you mention it as a
guarantee, so that I may know you are genuine?”
“Not exactly; that would be weak, wouldn’t it?” the Princess
asked. “My genuineness must be in myself—a matter for you to
appreciate as you know me better; not in my references and
vouchers.”
“I shall never know you better. What business is it of mine?”
“I want to help you,” said the Princess, and as she made this
earnest appeal her face became transfigured; it wore an expression
of the most passionate yet the purest longing. “I want to do
something for the cause you represent; for the millions that are
rotting under our feet—the millions whose whole life is passed on
the brink of starvation, so that the smallest accident pushes them
over. Try me, test me; ask me to put my hand to something, to
prove that I am as deeply in earnest as those who have already
given proof. I know what I am talking about—what one must meet
and face and count with, the nature and the immensity of your
organisation. I am not playing. No, I am not playing.”
Paul Muniment watched her with his steady smile until this sudden
outbreak had spent itself. “I was afraid you would be like this—that
you would turn on the fountains and let off the fireworks.”
“Permit me to believe you thought nothing about it. There is no
reason my fireworks should disturb you.”
“I have always had a fear of women.”
“I see—that’s a part of your prudence,” said the Princess,
reflectively. “But you are the sort of man who ought to know how to
use them.”
Muniment said nothing, immediately, in answer to this; the way he
appeared to consider the Princess suggested that he was not
following closely what she said, so much as losing himself in certain
matters which were beside that question—her beauty, for instance,
her grace, her fragrance, the spectacle of a manner and quality so
new to him. After a little, however, he remarked, irrelevantly, “I’m
afraid I’m very rude.”
“Of course you are, but it doesn’t signify. What I mainly object to
is that you don’t answer my questions. Would not some one else do
Hyacinth Robinson’s work quite as well? Is it necessary to take a
nature so delicate, so intellectual? Oughtn’t we to keep him for
something finer?”
“Finer than what?”
“Than what Hoffendahl will call upon him to do.”
“And pray what is that?” the young man demanded. “You know
nothing about it; no more do I,” he added in a moment. “It will
require whatever it will. Besides, if some one else might have done
it, no one else volunteered. It happened that Robinson did.”
“Yes, and you nipped him up!” the Princess exclaimed.
At this expression Muniment burst out laughing. “I have no doubt
you can easily keep him, if you want him.”
“I should like to do it in his place—that’s what I should like,” said
the Princess.
“As I say, you don’t even know what it is.”
“It may be nothing,” she went on, with her grave eyes fixed on her
visitor. “I dare say you think that what I wanted to see you for was
to beg you to let him off. But it wasn’t. Of course it’s his own affair,
and you can do nothing. But oughtn’t it to make some difference,
when his opinions have changed?”
“His opinions? He never had any opinions,” Muniment replied. “He
is not like you and me.”
“Well, then, his feelings, his attachments. He hasn’t the passion
for democracy he had when I first knew him. He’s much more tepid.”
“Ah, well, he’s quite right.”
The Princess stared. “Do you mean that you are giving up—?”
“A fine stiff conservative is a thing I perfectly understand,” said
Paul Muniment. “If I were on the top, I’d stick there.”
“I see, you are not narrow,” the Princess murmured,
appreciatively.
“I beg your pardon, I am. I don’t call that wide. One must be
narrow to penetrate.”
 “Whatever you are, you’ll succeed,” said the Princess. “Hyacinth
won’t, but you will.”
“It depends upon what you call success!” the young man
exclaimed. And in a moment, before she replied, he added, looking
about the room, “You’ve got a very lovely dwelling.”
“Lovely? My dear sir, it’s hideous. That’s what I like it for,” the
Princess added.
“Well, I like it; but perhaps I don’t know the reason. I thought you
had given up everything—pitched your goods out of the window, for
a grand scramble.”
“Well, so I have. You should have seen me before.”
“I should have liked that,” said Muniment, smiling. “I like to see
solid wealth.”
“Ah, you’re as bad as Hyacinth. I am the only consistent one!” the
Princess sighed.
“You have a great deal left, for a person who has given everything
away.”
“These are not mine—these abominations—or I would give them,
too!” Paul’s hostess rejoined, artlessly.
Muniment got up from his chair, still looking about the room. “I
would give my nose for such a place as this. At any rate, you are not
yet reduced to poverty.”
“I have a little left—to help you.”
“I dare say you’ve a great deal,” said Paul, with his north-country
accent.
“I could get money—I could get money,” the Princess continued,
gravely. She had also risen, and was standing before him.
These two remarkable persons faced each other, their eyes met
again, and they exchanged a long, deep glance of mutual scrutiny.
Each seemed to drop a plummet into the other’s mind. Then a
strange and, to the Princess, unexpected expression passed over the
countenance of the young man; his lips compressed themselves, as
if he were making a strong effort, his colour rose, and in a moment
he stood there blushing like a boy. He dropped his eyes and stared
at the carpet, while he observed, “I don’t trust women—I don’t trust
women!”
“I am sorry, but, after all, I can understand it,” said the Princess;
“therefore I won’t insist on the question of your allowing me to work
with you. But this appeal I will make to you: help me a little yourself
—help me!”
“How do you mean, help you?” Muniment demanded, raising his
eyes, which had a new, conscious look.
“Advise me; you will know how. I am in trouble—I have gone very
far.”
“I have no doubt of that!” said Paul, laughing.
“I mean with some of those people abroad. I’m not frightened,
but I’m perplexed; I want to know what to do.”
“No, you are not frightened,” Muniment rejoined, after a moment.
“I am, however, in a sad entanglement. I think you can straighten
it out. I will give you the facts, but not now, for we shall be
interrupted; I hear my old lady on the stairs. For this, you must
come to see me again.”
At this point the door opened, and Madame Grandoni appeared,
cautiously, creepingly, as if she didn’t know what might be going on
in the parlour. “Yes, I will come again,” said Paul Muniment, in a low
but distinct tone; and he walked away, passing Madame Grandoni on
the threshold, without having exchanged the hand-shake of farewell
with his hostess. In the hall he paused an instant, feeling she was
behind him; and he learned that she had not come to exact from
him this omitted observance, but to say once more, dropping her
voice, so that her companion, through the open door, might not hear
—
“I could get money—I could!”
Muniment passed his hand through his hair, and, as if he had not
heard her, remarked, “I have not given you, after all, half Rosy’s
messages.”
Welcome to our website – the ideal destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. With a mission to inspire endlessly, we offer a
vast collection of books, ranging from classic literary works to
specialized publications, self-development books, and children's
literature. Each book is a new journey of discovery, expanding
knowledge and enriching the soul of the reade

Our website is not just a platform for buying books, but a bridge
connecting readers to the timeless values of culture and wisdom. With
an elegant, user-friendly interface and an intelligent search system,
we are committed to providing a quick and convenient shopping
experience. Additionally, our special promotions and home delivery
services ensure that you save time and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Let us accompany you on the journey of exploring knowledge and

personal growth!

ebookultra.com