“Fritzi,” cried Priscilla with more passion than she had ever put into speech before, “life’s too much for me—­I tell you life’s too much for me!” And with a gesture of her arms as though she would sweep it all back, keep it from surging over her, from choking her, she ran out into the street to get into her own room and be alone, pulling the door to behind her for fear he should follow and want to explain and comfort, leaving him with his AEschylus in which, happening to glance sighing, he, enviable man, at once became again absorbed, and running blindly, headlong, as he runs who is surrounded and accompanied by a swarm of deadly insects which he vainly tries to out-distance, she ran straight into somebody coming from the opposite direction, ran full tilt, was almost knocked off her feet, and looking up with the impatient anguish of him who is asked to endure his last straw her lips fell apart in an utter and boundless amazement; for the person she had run against was that Prince—­the last of the series, distinguished from the rest by his having quenched the Grand Duke’s irrelevant effervescence by the simple expedient of saying Bosh—­who had so earnestly desired to marry her.

XXIII

“Hullo,” said the Prince, who spoke admirable English.

Priscilla could only stare.

His instinct was to repeat the exclamation which he felt represented his feelings very exactly, for her appearance—­clothes, expression, everything—­astonished him, but he doubted whether it would well bear repeating.  “Is this where you are staying?” he inquired instead.

“Yes,” said Priscilla.

“May I come in?”

“Yes,” said Priscilla.

He followed her into her parlour.  He looked at her critically as she walked slowly before him, from head to foot he looked at her critically; at every inch of the shabby serge gown, at the little head with its badly arranged hair, at the little heel that caught in an unmended bit of braid, at the little shoe with its bow of frayed ribbon, and he smiled broadly behind his moustache.  But when she turned round he was perfectly solemn.

“I suppose,” said the Prince, putting his hands in his pockets and gazing about the room with an appearance of cheerful interest, “this is what one calls a snug little place.”

Priscilla stood silent.  She felt as though she had been shaken abruptly out of sleep.  Her face even now after the soul-rending time she had been having, in spite of the shadows beneath the eyes, the droop at the corners of the mouth, in spite, too, it must be said of the flagrantly cottage fashion in which Annalise had done her hair, seemed to the Prince so extremely beautiful, so absolutely the face of his dearest, best desires, so limpid, apart from all grace of colouring and happy circumstance of feature, with the light of a sweet and noble nature, so manifestly the outward expression of an indwelling lovely soul, that his eyes, after one glance round the room, fixed themselves upon it and never were able to leave it again.