last dinner.  Without diplomatising to do so, with no effort to square her, none to bribe her to an attitude for which he would have had no use in her if it were not sincere, he yet felt how he both held her and moved her by the felicity of his taking pity, all instinctively, on her just discernible depression.  By just so much as he guessed that she felt herself, as the slang was, out of it, out of the crystal current and the expensive picture, by just so much had his friendship charmingly made up to her, from hour to hour, for the penalties, as they might have been grossly called, of her mistake.  Her mistake had only been, after all, in her wanting to seem to him straight; she had let herself in for being—­as she had made haste, for that matter, during the very first half-hour, at tea, to proclaim herself—­the sole and single frump of the party.  The scale of everything was so different that all her minor values, her quainter graces, her little local authority, her humour and her wardrobe alike, for which it was enough elsewhere, among her bons amis, that they were hers, dear Fanny Assingham’s—­these matters and others would be all, now, as nought:  five minutes had sufficed to give her the fatal pitch.  In Cadogan Place she could always, at the worst, be picturesque—­for she habitually spoke of herself as “local” to Sloane Street whereas at Matcham she should never be anything but horrible.  And it all would have come, the disaster, from the real refinement, in her, of the spirit of friendship.  To prove to him that she wasn’t really watching him—­ground for which would have been too terribly grave—­she had followed him in his pursuit of pleasure:  So she might, precisely, mark her detachment.  This was handsome trouble for her to take—­the Prince could see it all:  it wasn’t a shade of interference that a good-natured man would visit on her.  So he didn’t even say, when she told him how frumpy she knew herself, how frumpy her very maid, odiously going back on her, rubbed it into her, night and morning, with unsealed eyes and lips, that she now knew her—­he didn’t then say “Ah, see what you’ve done:  isn’t it rather your own fault?” He behaved differently altogether:  eminently distinguished himself—­for she told him she had never seen him so universally distinguished—­he yet distinguished her in her obscurity, or in what was worse, her objective absurdity, and frankly invested her with her absolute value, surrounded her with all the importance of her wit.  That wit, as discriminated from stature and complexion, a sense for “bridge” and a credit for pearls, could have importance was meanwhile but dimly perceived at Matcham; so that his “niceness” to her—­she called it only niceness, but it brought tears into her eyes—­had the greatness of a general as well as of a special demonstration.