THE PRINCE
"Oh yes," he said after a moment—"I remember we're not to speak of it."
"That of course you're pledged to. And the one thing, you see, goes with the other. So you don't insist."
He had again, at random, laid back his trinket; with which he quite turned to her a little wearily at last—even a little impatiently. "I don't insist."
It disposed for the time of the question, but what was next apparent was that it had seen them no further. The shopman, who hadn't stirred, stood there in his patience—which, his mute intensity helping, had almost the effect of an ironic comment. The Prince moved to the glass door and, his back to the others, as with nothing more to contribute, looked—though not less patiently—into the street. Then the shopman, for Charlotte, momentously broke silence. "You've seen, disgraziatamente, signora principessa," he sadly said, "too much"—and it made the Prince face about. For the effect of the momentous came, if not from the sense, from the sound of his words; which was that of the suddenest sharpest Italian. Charlotte exchanged with her friend a glance that matched it, and just for the minute they were held in check. But their glance had after all by that time said more than one thing; had both exclaimed on the apprehension, by the wretch, of their intimate conversation, let alone of her possible, her impossible, title, and remarked, for mutual reassurance, that it didn't, all the same, matter. The Prince remained by the door, but immediately addressing the speaker from where he stood.
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