No one had ever talked to Ermyntrude in this way, not even the late Geoffrey Fanshawe, in the first flush of his infatuation for her. She had, in fact, been more used to listen to strictures upon her lack of breeding; and, being a very humble-minded woman, had always accepted her neighbours' obvious valuation of her as the true one. It was, therefore, delightful to hear herself extolled, and by no less a person than a prince; and she made no attempt either to draw her hand away, or to discourage further flattery. She even blushed rather prettily under her rouge and her powder, and inquired artlessly whether Alexis thought that the setting became her.

"You are so many-sided: everything becomes you! You would be beautiful in a garret," he replied earnestly. "Yet - I may say it? - always since I have first seen you, I have felt that something there is lacking in your life. I think you are not understood. You have never been understood. On the surface you are so gay that everyone says: "She has everything to make her happy, the beautiful Mrs. Carter: a husband, a lovely daughter, much money, much beauty!" It is perhaps only I who have seen behind the sparkle in those eyes, something - how shall I express it? - of loneliness, of a soul that is not guessed at, even by those who stand nearest to you."

This was most gratifying, and although Ermyntrude had not previously suspected that she was misunderstood, she began to realise that it was so, and reflected that one of the more attractive attributes of foreign gentlemen was their subtle perception. She gave a faint sigh, and bestowed upon the Prince a very speaking glance. "It's funny, isn't it?" she said. "I seemed to know, right at the start, that you were what I call understanding."

He pressed her hand. "There is a bond of sympathy between us. You too are aware of it, for you are not like the rest of your country-women."