 Chapter thirty-five of The Golden Bowl. After the little party was again constituted at Fonds, which had taken for completeness some ten days, Maggie naturally felt herself still more possessed in spirit of everything that had last happened in London. There was a phrase that came back to her from old American years. She was having, by that idiom, the time of her life. She knew it by the perpetual throb of this sense of possession, which was almost too violent either to recognize or to hide. It was as if she had come out. That was her most general consciousness, out of a dark tunnel, a dense wood, or even simply a smoky room, and had thereby at last for going on the advantage of air in her lungs. It was as if she were somehow at last gathering in the fruits of patience. She had either been really more patient than she had known at the time, or had been so for longer. The change brought about by itself as great a difference of view as the shift of an inch in the position of a telescope. It was her telescope, in fact, that had gained in range, just as her danger lay in her exposing herself to the observation by the more charmed, and therefore the more reckless use of this optical resource. Not under any provocation to produce it in public was her unremitted rule, but the difficulties of duplicity had not shrunk, while the need of it had doubled. Humbugging, which she had so practised with her father, had been a comparatively simple matter on the basis of mere doubt. But the ground to be covered was now greatly larger, and she felt not unlike some young woman of the theatre, who engaged for a minor part in the play and having mastered her cues with anxious effort, should find herself suddenly promoted to leading lady and expected to appear in every act of the five. She had made much to her husband that last night of her knowing. But it was exactly this quantity she now knew that, from the moment she could only dissimulate it, added to her responsibility, and made of the latter all a mere question of having something precious and precarious in charge. There was no one to help her with it, not even Fanny Asingham now. This good friend's presence, having become inevitably, with that climax of their last interview in Portland Place, a severely simplified function. She had her use, oh yes, a thousand times, but it could only consist henceforth in her quite conspicuously touching, at no point whatever, assuredly at least with Maggie, the matter they had discussed. She was there, inordinately, as a value, but as a value only for the clear negation of everything. She was their general sign, precisely, of unimpaired beatitude, and she was to live up to that somewhat arduous character-poor thing as she might. She might privately lapse from it, if she must, with Amorigo or with Charlotte. Only not, of course, ever, so much as for the wink of an eye with the master of the house. Such lapses would be her own affair, which Maggie at present could take no thought of. She treated her young friend, meanwhile, it was to be said, to no betrayal of such wavering, so that from the moment of her alighting at the door with the Colonel everything went on between them at concert pitch. What had she done, that last evening in Maggie's room, but bring the husband and wife more together than, as would seem, they had ever been? Therefore what indiscretion should she not show by attempting to go behind the grand appearance of her success, which would be to court a doubt of her beneficent work? She knew accordingly nothing but harmony and diffused, restlessly nothing but peace, an extravagant, expressive, aggressive peace, not incongruous after all, with the solid calm of the place. A kind of helmeted, trident-shaking Pax Britannica. The peace it must be added had become, as the days elapsed, a peace quite generally animated and peopled, thanks to that fact of the presence of company in which Maggie's ability to preserve an appearance had learned, from so far back, to find its best resource. It was not inconspicuous, it was in fact striking, that this resource just now seemed to meet in the highest degree every one's need, quite as if every one were, by the multiplication of human objects in the scene, by the creation, by the confusion, of fictive issues, hopeful of escaping somebody else's notice. It had reached the point in truth that the collective bosom might have been taken to heave with the knowledge of the descent upon adjacent shores for a short period of Mrs. Rance and the Luches, still united and still so divided for conquest. The sense of the party showed at least, oddly enough, as favorable to the fancy of the quaint turn that some near weakened might derive from their reappearance. This measured for Maggie the ground they had all traveled together since that unforgotten afternoon of the none so distant year, that determinate September Sunday when, sitting with her father in the park, as in commemoration of the climax both of their old order and of their old danger, she had proposed to him that they should call in Charlotte, called her in as a specialist might be summoned to an invalid's chair. Wasn't it a sign of something rather pretentious there being ready to be beholden, as for a diversion, to the once despised kitty and doddy? That had already had its application in truth to her invocation of the castle-deans and several other members again of the historic match-and-week made before she left town, and made always consistently with an idea, since she was never henceforth to approach these people without an idea, and since that lurid element of their intercourse grew and grew for her with each occasion. The flame with which it burned afresh during these particular days, the way it held up the torch to anything, to everything, that might have occurred as the climax of revels springing from traditions so vivified, this by itself justified her private motive and reconsecrated her diplomacy. She had already produced by the aid of these people something of the effect she sought, that of being good for whatever her companions were good for, and of not asking either of them to give up any one or anything for her sake. There was, moreover, frankly, a sharpness of point in it that she enjoyed. It gave an accent to the truth she wished to illustrate, the truth that the surface of her recent life, thick sown with the flower of earnest endeavor, with every form of the unruffled and the undoubting, suffered no symptom anywhere to peep out. It was as if, under her pressure, neither party could get rid of the complicity as it might be figured of the other. As if in a word she saw Amorigo and Charlotte committed, for fear of betrayals on their own side, to a kind of one consistency on the subject of Lady Casseldeen's set, and this latter group, by the same stroke, compelled to assist at attestations the extent and bearing of which they rather failed to grasp, in which left them indeed, in spite of hereditary high spirits, a trifle bewildered and even a trifle scared. They made nonetheless at fawns for number, for movement, for sound. They played their parts during a crisis that must have hovered for them in the long passages of the old house, after the fashion of the established ghost, felt, through the dark hours as a constant possibility, rather than have menaced them in the form of a daylight bore, one of the perceived outsiders who are liable to be met in the drawing-room, or to be sat next to it dinner. If the Princess, moreover, had failed of her occult use for so much of the machinery of diversion, she would still have had a sense not other than sympathetic for the advantage now extracted from it by Fanny Asingham's bruised philosophy. This good friend's relation to it was actually the revanche. She sufficiently indicated a verb-scured lustreate matchum, where she had known her way about so much less than most of the others. She knew it at fawns, through the pathless wild of the right tone, positively better than any one Maggie could note for her, and her revenge had the magnanimity of a brave pointing out of it to everyone else, a wonderful, irresistible, conscious, almost compassionate patronage. Here was a house she triumphantly caused it to be noted, in which she so bristled with values that some of them might serve by her amused willingness to share, for such of the temporarily vague among her fellow guests, such of the dimly disconcerted as had lost the key to their own. It may have been partly through the effect of this special strain of community with her old friend that Maggie found herself, one evening, moved to take up again their drop-directness of reference. They had remained downstairs together late. The other women of the party had filed, singly or in couples, up the grand staircase on which, from the equally grand hall, these retreats and advances could always be pleasantly observed. The men had apparently taken their way to the smoking-room, while the princess, in possession thus of a rare beach of view, had lingered as if to enjoy it. Then she saw that Mrs. Asingham was remaining a little, and as for the appreciation of her enjoyment, upon which they stood looking at each other across the cleared prospect until the elder woman, only vaguely expressive and tentative now, came nearer. It was like the act of asking if there were anything she could yet do, and that question was answered by her immediate feeling on this close review as she had felt when presenting herself in Portland Place after Maggie's last sharp summons. Their understanding was taken up by these new snatched moments where that occasion had left it. He has never told her that I know. Of that I'm at last satisfied. And then, as Mrs. Asingham opened wide eyes, I've been in the dark since we came down, not understanding what he has been doing or intending, not making out what can have passed between them. But within a day or two I've begun to suspect, and this evening, for reasons, oh, too many to tell you, I've been sure since it explains. Nothing has passed between them. That's what has happened. It explains, the Princess repeated with energy, it explains, it explains. She spoke in a manner that her auditor was afterwards to describe to the Colonel, oddly enough, is that of the quietest excitement. She had turned back to the chimney-place, where, in honor of a damp day and a chill night, the piled logs had turned to flame and sunk to embers, and the evident intensity of her vision for the fact that she imparted made Fanny Asingham wait upon her words. It explained, this striking fact, more indeed than her companion, though conscious of fairly gaping with good will, could swallow at once. The Princess, however, as for indulgence and confidence, quickly filled up the measure. He hasn't let her know that I know, and clearly doesn't mean to. He has made up his mind. He'll say nothing about it. Therefore, as she's quite unable to arrive at the knowledge by herself, she has no idea how much I'm really in possession. She believes, said Maggie. And so far as her own conviction goes, she knows that I'm not in possession of anything, and that somehow, for my own help, seems to me immense. Amense, my dear, Mrs. Asingham applesively murmured, though not quite even as yet seeing all the way. He's keeping quiet then on purpose. On purpose. Maggie's lighted eyes at last looked further than they had ever looked. He'll never tell her now. Fanny wondered. She cast about her, most of all she admired her little friend, and assumed this announcement was evidently animated by an heroic lucidity. She stood there, in her full uniform, like some small, erect commander of a siege, an anxious captain who has suddenly got news, replete with importance for him, a vegetation of division within the place. This importance breathed upon her comrade. So you're all right. Oh, all right's a good deal to say, but I seem at least to see as I haven't before where I am with it. Fanny bountifully brooded. There was a point left vague. And you have it from him? Your husband himself has told you? Told me? Why what you speak of? It isn't of an assurance received from him, then, that you do speak. At which Maggie had continued to stare. Dear me, no. Do you suppose I've asked him for an assurance? Ah, you haven't, her companion smiled. That's what I supposed you might mean. Then, darling, what have you? Asked him for? I've asked him for nothing. But this, in turn, made Fanny stare. Then nothing, that evening of the embassy dinner, passed between you? On the contrary, everything passed. Everything? Everything. I told him what I knew, and I told him how I knew it. Mrs. Asingham waited. And that was all? Wasn't it quite enough? Oh, love, she bridled. That's for you to have judged. Then I have judged, said Maggie. I did judge. I made sure he understood. Then I let him alone. Mrs. Asingham wondered. But he didn't explain. Explain? Thank God, no. Maggie threw back her head as with horror at the thought, then the next moment added. And I didn't either. The decency of pride in it shed a cold little light, yet is from heights at the base of which her companion rather panted. But if he neither denies nor confesses, he does what's a thousand times better. He lets it alone. He does, Maggie went on, as he would do, as I see now that I was sure he would. He lets me alone. Fanny Asingham turned it over. Then how do you know so where, as you say, you are? Why just by that? I put him in possession of the difference, the difference made about me by the fact that I hadn't been after all, though with a wonderful chance I admitted helping me, too stupid to have arrived at knowledge. He had to see that I'm changed for him, quite changed from the idea of me that he had so long been going on with. He became a question, then, of his really taking in the change, and what I now see is that he is doing so. Fanny followed as she could, which he shows by letting you, as you say, alone. Maggie looked at her a minute, and by letting her. Mrs. Asingham did what she might to embrace it, checked a little, however, by a thought that was the nearest approach she could have in this almost too large air, to an inspiration. Ah! but does Charlotte let him? Oh, that's another affair, with which I've practically nothing to do. I dare say, however, she doesn't. And the Princess had a more distant gaze for the image evoked by the question. I don't, in fact, well see how she can, but the point for me is that he understands. Yes, Fanny Asingham could, understands. Well, what I want. I want a happiness without a hole in it big enough for you to poke in your finger. A brilliant, perfect surface to begin with, at least, I see. The golden bowl, as it was to have been. And Maggie dwelt musingly on this obscured figure. The bowl with all our happiness in it. The bowl without the crack. For Mrs. Asingham, too, the image had its force, and the precious object shown before her again reconstituted, plausible, presentable. But wasn't there still a piece missing? Yet, if he lets you alone, and you only let him. Mayn't our doing so, you mean, be noticed? Mayn't it give us away? Well, we hope not. We try not. We take such care. We alone know what's between us, we and you, and haven't you precisely been struck since you've been here, Maggie asked, with our making so good a show. Her friend hesitated. To your father. But it made her hesitate, too. She wouldn't speak of her father directly. To everyone. To her. Now that you understand. It held poor Fanny again in wonder. To Charlotte, yes, if there's so much beneath it for you, and if it's all such a plan, that makes it hang together, it makes you hang together. She fairly exhaled her admiration. You're like nobody else. You're extraordinary. Maggie met it with appreciation, but with a reserve. No, I'm not extraordinary. But I am, for everyone, quiet. Well, that's just what is extraordinary. Quiet is more than I am, and you leave me far behind. With which, again, for an instant Mrs. Asingham frankly brooded. Now that I understand, you say, but there's one thing I don't understand. And the next minute, while her companion waited, she had mentioned it. How can Charlotte, after all, not have pressed him, not have attacked him about it? How can she not have asked him? Asked him on his honor, I mean, if you know. How can she not? Why, of course, said the Princess lipidly. She must. Well, then. Well, then you think he must have told her? Why, exactly what I mean, said Maggie, is that he will have done nothing of the sort. Well, as I say, have maintained the contrary. Fanny Asingham waited. Under her direct appeal for the truth. Under her direct appeal for the truth. Her appeal to his honor. Her appeal to his honor. That's my point. Fanny Asingham braved it. For the truth is from him to her. From him to anyone. Mrs. Asingham's face lighted. He'll simply, he'll insistently, have lied. Maggie brought it out roundly. He'll simply, he'll insistently, have lied. It held again her companion, who next, however, with a single movement, throwing herself on her neck, overflowed. Oh, if you knew how you helped me. Maggie had liked her to understand, so far as this was possible, but had not been slow to see afterwards how the possibility was limited, when one came to think, by mystery she was not to sound. This inability in her was indeed not remarkable, and as much as the Princess herself as we have seen, was only now in a position to boast of touching bottom. Maggie lived inwardly, and a consciousness that she could but partly open, even to so good a friend, and her own visitation of the fuller expanse of which was, for that matter, still going on. They had been duskier still, however, these recesses of her imagination. That no doubt was what might at present be said for them. She had looked into them, on the eve of her leaving town, almost without penetration. She had made out in those hours, and also of a truth, during the days which immediately followed, little more than the strangeness of a relation having for its chief mark, whether it be prolonged or not, the absence of any intimate result of the crisis she had invited her husband to recognize. They had dealt with this crisis again, face to face, very briefly, the morning after the scene in her room. But with the odd consequence of her having appeared merely to leave it on his hands, he had received it from her as he might have received a bunch of keys or a list of commissions, attentive to her instructions about them, but only putting them for the time very carefully and safely into his pocket. The instructions had seemed, from day to day, to make so little difference for his behavior, that is, for his speech or his silence, to produce as yet so little of the fruit of action. He had taken from her on the spot, in a word, before going to dress for dinner, all she then had to give, after which, on the morrow, he had asked her for more, a good deal as if she might have renewed her supply during the night. But he had had his command for this latter purpose an error of extraordinary detachment and discretion, an error amounting really to an appeal which, if she could have brought herself to describe it vulgarly, she would have described as cool, just as he himself would have described it in anyone else as cheeky. A suggestion that she should trust him on the particular grounds since she didn't on the general. Neither his speech nor his silence struck her as signifying more or less under this pressure than they had seemed to signify for weeks past. Yet if her sense hadn't been absolutely closed to the possibility in him of any thought of wounding her, she might have taken his undisturbed manner, the perfection of his appearance of having recovered himself, for one of those intentions of high impertinence by the aid of which great people, Legrand Signeurs, persons of her husband's class and type, always know how to re-establish a violated order. It was her one purely good fortune that she could feel thus sure impertinence, for her at any rate, was not among the arts on which she proposed to throw himself. For though he had, in so almost mystifying a manner, replied to nothing, denied nothing, explained nothing, apologized for nothing, he had somehow conveyed to her that this was not because of any determination to treat her case as not worth it. There had been consideration on both occasions in the way he had listened to her, even though at the same time there had been extreme reserve. A reserve, indeed, it was also to be remembered, qualified by the fact that on their second and shorter interview in Portland Place, and quite at the end of this passage, she had imagined him positively proposing to her a temporary accommodation. It had been but the matter of something in the depths of the eyes he finally fixed upon her, and she had found in it the more she kept it before her the tacitly offered sketch of a working arrangement. Make me my reserve. Don't question it, it's all I have just now, don't you see? So that, if you'll make me the concession of letting me alone with it for as long a time as I require, I promise you something or other grown under cover of it, even though I don't yet quite make out what, as a return for your patience. She had turned away from him with some such unspoken words as that in her ear, and indeed she had to represent to herself that she had spiritually heard them, had to listen to them still again, to explain her particular patience in face of his particular failure. He hadn't so much as pretended to meet for an instant the question raised by her of her accepted ignorance of the point in time, the period before their own marriage, from which his intimacy with Charlotte dated. As an ignorance in which he and Charlotte had been personally interested, and to the pitch of consummately protecting for years each other's interest, as a condition so imposed upon her the fact of its having ceased might have made it, on the spot, the first article of his defense. He had vouchsafed it, however, nothing better than his longest stare of postpone consideration. That tribute he had coldly paid it, and Maggie might herself have been stupefied, truly, had she not had something to hold on by at her own presentability, even provisional, to make terms with a chapter of history into which she could but a week before not have dipped without a mortal chill. At the rate at which she was living she was getting used hour by hour to these extensions of view, and when she asked herself at Fonz to what single observation of her own in London the prince had had an affirmation to oppose, she but just failed to focus the small strained wife of the moments in question as some panting dancer of a difficult step who had capered before the footlights of an empty theatre to a spectator lounging in a box. Her best comprehension of Amarigo's success and not committing himself was in her recall, meanwhile, of the inquiries he had made of her on their only return to the subject, in which he had in fact explicitly provoked their return in order to make. He had had it over with her again, the so distinctly remarkable incident of her interview at home with a little bloomsbury shopman. This anecdote for him had, not altogether surprisingly, required some straighter telling, and the prince's attitude and presence of it had represented once more his nearest approach to a cross examination. The difficulty in respect to the little man had been for the question of his motive, his motive in writing first in the spirit of retraction to a lady with whom he had made a most advantageous bargain, and in then coming to see her so that his apology should be personal. Maggie had felt her explanation weak, but there were the facts and she could give no other. Left alone after the transaction with the knowledge that his visitor designed the object bought of him as a birthday gift to her father, for Maggie confessed freely to having chattered to him almost as to a friend, the vendor of the golden bowl had acted on a scruple rare enough in vendors of any class, and almost unprecedented in the thrifty children of Israel. He hadn't liked what he had done, and what he had above all made such a good thing of having done, at the thought of his purchaser's good faith and charming presence, opposed to that flaw in her a question which would make it verily as an offering to a loved parent, a thing of sinister meaning and evil effect. He had known conscientious, he had known superstitious visitings, had given way to a whim all the more remarkable to his own commercial mind, no doubt, from its never having troubled him in other connections. She had recognized the oddity of her adventure and left it to show for what it was. She had not been unconscious, on the other hand, that if it hadn't touched Amorigo so nearly he would have found in it matter for some amused reflection. He had uttered an extraordinary sound, something between a laugh and a howl, on her saying, as she had made a point of doing. Almost certainly he told me his reason was because he liked me. Though she remained in doubt of whether that inarticulate comment had been provoked most by the familiarities she had offered, or by those that so pictured she had had to endure, that the partner of her bargain had yearned to see her again, that he had plainly jumped at a pretext for it, this also she had frankly expressed herself to the princes having, in no snubbing, no scandalized, but rather in a positively appreciative and indebted spirit, not delayed to make out. He had wished ever so seriously to return her a part of her money, and she had wholly declined to receive it. And then he had uttered his hope that she had not, at all events, already devoted the crystal cup to the beautiful purpose she had so kindly and so fortunately named to him. It wasn't a thing for a present to a person she was fond of, for she wouldn't wish to give a present that would bring ill luck. That had come to him, so that he couldn't rest, and he should feel better now that he had told her. His having led her to act in ignorance was what he should have been ashamed of. And if she would pardon gracious lady as she was, all the liberties he had taken, she might make of the bowl any use in life with that one. It was after this that the most extraordinary incident of all, of course, had occurred. His pointing to the two photographs with the remark that those were persons he knew, and that more wonderful still, he had made acquaintance with them, years before, precisely over the same article. The lady on that occasion had taken up the fancy of presenting it to the gentleman, and the gentleman, guessing and dodging ever so cleverly, had declared that he wouldn't for the world receive an object under such suspicion. He himself, the little man, had confessed, wouldn't have minded about them. But he had never forgotten either their talk or their faces, the impression altogether made by them, and if she really wished to know now what had perhaps most moved him, it was the thought that she should ignorantly have gone in for a thing not good enough for other buyers. He had been immensely struck, that was another point, with this accident of their turning out, after so long, friends of hers, too. They had disappeared, and this was the only light he had ever had upon them. He had flushed up quite red with his recognition, with all his responsibility, had declared that the connection must have had mysteriously something to do with the impulse he had obeyed. And Maggie had made, to her husband, while he against it before her, no secret of the shock for herself so suddenly and violently received. She had done her best, even while taking it full on the face, not to give herself away. But she wouldn't answer, no she wouldn't, for what she might in her agitation have made her informant think. He might think what he would, there had been three or four minutes during which, while she asked him question upon question, she had doubtless too little cared. And he had spoken, for his remembrance, as fully as she could have wished. He had spoken, oh, delightedly, for the terms on which his other visitors had appeared to be with each other, and in fact for that conviction of the nature and degree of their intimacy under which, in spite of precautions, they hadn't been able to help leaving him. He had observed and judged and not forgotten. He had been sure they were great people. But no, ah, no, distinctly, hadn't liked them as he liked the senora principessa. Finally she had created no vagueness about that. He had been in possession of her name and address for sending her both her cup and her account. But the others he had only always wondered about. He had been sure they would never come back. And as to the time of their visit, he could place it positively to a day, by reason of a transaction of importance recorded in his books, that had occurred but a few hours later. He had left her in short, definitely rejoicing that he had been able to make up to her, for not having been quite square over the little business by rendering her, so unexpectedly, the service of this information. His joy, moreover, was, as much as Amorigo would, a matter of the personal interest with which her kindness, gentleness, grace, her charming presence and easy humanity and familiarity had inspired him, all of which while in thought Maggie went over it again and again, oh, over any imputable rashness of her own immediate passion and pain, as well as over the rest of the straight little story she had, after all to tell, might very conceivably make a long sum for the Prince to puzzle out. There were, meanwhile, after the Castle Deans and those invited to meet them had gone, and before Mrs. Rant and the Luches had come, three or four days during which she was to learn the full extent of her need not to be penetrable. And then it was, indeed, that she felt all the force and threw herself upon all the help of the truth she had confided several nights earlier to Fanny Asingham. She had known and in advance had warned herself of it while the house was full. Charlotte had designs upon her of a nature best known to herself and was only waiting for the better opportunity of their finding themselves less companioned. This consciousness had been exactly at the bottom of Maggie's wish to multiply their spectators. There were moments for her, positively, moments of planned postponement, of evasion scarcely less disguised than studied, during which she turned over with anxiety the different ways, there being two or three possible ones, in which her young stepmother might at need seek to work upon her. Amorigos not having told her of his passage with his wife gave for Maggie altogether a new aspect to Charlotte's consciousness and condition, an aspect with which for apprehension, for wonder, and even at moments, and consequently enough for something like compassion, the Princess had now to reckon. She asked herself, for she was capable of that, what he had meant by keeping the sharer of his guilt in the dark about a matter touching her otherwise so nearly. What he had meant, that is, for this unmistakably mystified personage herself. Maggie could imagine what he had meant for her, all sorts of thinkable things, whether things of mere form or things of sincerity, things of pity or things of prudence. He had meant, for instance, in all probability, primarily, to conjure away any such appearance of a changed relation between the two women as his father-in-law might notice and follow up. He would have been open to him, however, given the pitch of their intimacy, to avert this danger by some more conceivable course with Charlotte, since an earnest warning, in fact, the full freedom of alarm that of his insisting to her on the peril of suspicion incurred, and on the importance, accordingly, of outward peace at any price, would have been the course really most conceivable. Instead of warning and advising, he had reassured and deceived her, so that our young woman, who had been from far back by the habit, if her nature, as much on her guard against sacrificing others as if she felt the great trap of life mainly to be set for one's doing so, now found herself attaching her fancy to that side of the situation of the exposed pair which involved for themselves, at least, the sacrifice to the least fortunate. She never at present thought of what Amarigo might be intending without the reflection by the same stroke that whatever this quantity he was leaving still more to her own ingenuity. He was helping her when the thing came to the test, only by the polished, possibly almost two-polished surface his manner to his wife wore for an admiring world, and that surely was entitled to scarcely more than the praise of negative diplomacy. He was keeping his manner right as she had related to Mrs. Asingham. The case would have been beyond calculation, truly, if on top of everything, he had allowed it to go wrong. She had hours of exultation indeed when the meaning of all this pressed in upon her as a tacit vow from him to abide without question by whatever she should be able to achieve or think fit to prescribe. Then it was that, even while holding her breath for the awe of it, she truly felt almost able enough for anything. It was as if she had passed, in a time incredibly short, from being nothing for him to being all. It was as if rightly noted, every turn of his head, every tone of his voice in these days, might mean that there was but one way in which a proud man reduced to objection could hold himself. During those of Maggie's vigils in which that view loomed largest, the image of her husband that it thus presented to her gave out a beauty for the revelation of which she struck herself as paying, if anything, all too little. To make sure of it, to make sure of the beauty shining out of the humility and of the humility lurking in all the pride of his presence, she would have gone the length of paying more yet, of paying with difficulties and anxieties compared to which those actually before her might have been as superficial as headaches or rainy days. The point at which these exultations dropped, however, was the point at which it was apt to come over her, that if her complications had been greater, the question of paying would have been limited still less to the liabilities of her own pocket. The complications were fairly great enough, whether for ingenuities or sublimities, so long as she had to come back to it so often that Charlotte, all the while, could only be struggling with secrets sharper than her own. It was odd how that certainty again and again determined and colored her wonderments of detail. The question, for instance, of how Amorigo, in snatched opportunities of conference, put the haunted creature off with false explanations, met her particular challenges and evaded, if that was what he did, her particular demands. Even the conviction that Charlotte was but awaiting some chance, really to test her trouble upon her lover's wife, left Maggie since, meanwhile, open as to the sight of guilt wires and bruised wings, the spacious but suspended cage, the home of eternal unrest, of pacing, beatings, shakings, also vain, and to which the baffled consciousness helplessly resolved itself. The cage was the deluded condition, and Maggie, as having known delusion, rather, understood the nature of cages. She walked round Charlotte's, cautiously and in a very wide circle. And when, inevitably, they had to communicate, she felt herself comparatively, outside, on the breast of nature, and saw her companion's face as out of a prisoner looking through bars. So it was that through bars, bars richly guilt, but firmly, though discreetly planted, Charlotte finally struck her as making a grim attempt, from which at first the princess drew back as instinctively as if the door of the cage had suddenly been opened from within. CHAPTER XXXVI. OF THE GOLDEN BOLLE. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett. THE GOLDEN BOLLE by Henry James. BOOK V. CHAPTER XXXVI. They had been alone that evening, alone as a party of six, and four of them after dinner, under suggestion not to be resisted, sat down to bridge in the smoking-room. They had passed together to that apartment, on rising from table, Charlotte and Mrs. Asingham alike indulgent, always to tobacco, and in fact practicing an emulation which, as Fanny said, would for herself had the colonel not issued an interdict based on the fear of her stealing his cigars, have stopped only at the short pipe. Here cards had with inevitable promptness asserted their rule, the game forming itself, as had often happened before, of Mr. Verver with Mrs. Asingham for partner, and of the Prince with Mrs. Verver. The colonel, who had then asked of Maggie, licensed to relieve his mind of a couple of letters for the earliest post out on the morrow, was addressing himself to this task at the other end of the room, and the Princess herself had welcomed the comparatively hushed hour, for the bridge-players were serious and silent, much in the mood of a tired actress who has the good fortune to be off, while her mates are on, almost long enough for a nap on the property sofa in the wing. Maggie's nap, had she been able to snatch forty winks, would have been of the spirit rather than of the sense. Yet as she subsided near a lamp, with the last salmon-coloured French periodical, she was to fail for refreshment, even of that sip of independence. There was no question for her, as she found, of closing her eyes and getting away. They strayed back to life in the stillness over the top of her review. She could lend herself to none of those refinements of the higher criticism with which its pages bristled. She was there, where her companions were, there again and more than ever there. It was as if of a sudden they had been made, in their personal intensity and their rare complexity of relation, freshly importunate to her. It was the first evening there had been no one else. Mrs. Rance and the Luches were due the next day. But meanwhile the facts of the situation were upright for her, round the green cloth and the silver flambeau. The fact of her father's wife's lover facing his mistress. The fact of her father's sitting, all unsounded and unblinking between them. The fact of Charlotte keeping it up, keeping up everything across the table, with her husband beside her. The fact of Fanny Asingham, wonderful creature, placed opposite to the three and knowing more about each, probably, when one came to think, than either of them knew of either. Erect above all for her was a sharp-edged fact of the relation of the whole group, individually and collectively, to herself. Herself suspiciously eliminated for the hour, but presumably more present to the attention of each than the next card to be played. Yes, under that imputation, to her sense, they sat. The imputation of wondering, beneath and behind all their apparently straight play, if she weren't really watching them from her corner, and consciously, as might be said, holding them in her hand. She was asking herself at last how they could bear it, for though cards were as not to her and she could follow no move, so that she was always on such occasions out of the party, they struck her as conforming alike, in the matter of gravity and propriety, to the stiff standard of the house. Her father, she knew, was a high adept, one of the greatest. She had been ever in her stupidity, his small, his soul despair. Amorigo excelled easily, as he understood and practiced every art that could beguile large leisure. Mrs. Asingham and Charlotte, moreover, were accounted as good, as members of a sex incapable of the nobler consistency could be. Therefore, evidently, they were not, all so up to their usual form, merely passing it off, whether for her or for themselves. And the amount of enjoyed, or at least achieved, security represented by so complete a conquest of appearances, was what acted on her nerves, precisely, with a kind of provocative force. She found herself for five minutes, thrilling with the idea of the prodigious effect that, just as she sat there near them, she had at her command, with the sense that if she were a bit different, oh, ever so different, all this high decorum would hang by a hair. There reigned for her, absolutely, during these vertiginous moments, that fascination of the monstrous, that temptation of the horribly possible, which we so often traced by its breaking out suddenly, lest it should go further in unexplained retreats and reactions. After it had been thus vividly before her, for a little, that springing up under her wrong and making them all start, stare and turn pale, she might sound out their doom in a single sentence, a sentence easy to choose among several of the lurid, after she had faced that blinding light and felt it turn to blackness. She rose from her place, laying aside her magazine, and moved slowly round the room, passing near the card-players and pausing an instant behind the chairs in turn. Silent and discreet, she bent a vague mild face upon them, as if to signify that, little as she followed their doings, she wished them well. And she took from each across the table, in the common solemnity, an upward recognition which she was to carry away with her on her moving out to the terrace, a few minutes later. Her father and her husband, Mrs. Asingham and Charlotte, had done nothing but meet her eyes. Yet the difference in these demonstrations made each a separate passage, which was all the more wonderful sense with the secret behind every face, they had alike tried to look at her through it and in denial of it. It all left her as she wandered off with the strangest of impressions, the sense forced upon her as never yet of an appeal, a positive confidence from the four pairs of eyes that was deeper than any negation, and that seemed to speak on the part of each of some relation to be contrived by her, a relation with herself which would spare the individual the danger, the actual present strain of the relation with the others. They thus tacitly put it upon her to be disposed of, the whole complexity of their peril, and she promptly saw why, because she was there, and there just as she was, to lift it off them and take it, to charge herself with it as a scapegoat of old, of whom she had once seen a terrible picture, had been charged with the sins of the people and had gone forth into the desert to sink under his burden and die. That indeed wasn't their design and their interest that she should sink under hers. It wouldn't be their feeling that she should do anything but live, live on somehow for their benefit, and even as much as possible in their company, to keep proving to them that they had truly escaped and that she was still there to simplify. This idea of her simplifying and of their combined struggle, dim as yet but steadily growing toward the perception of her adopting it from them, clung to her while she hovered on the terrace, where the summer night was so soft that she scarce needed the light shawl she had picked up. Several of the long windows of the occupied rooms stood open to it, and the light came out in vague shafts and fell upon the old smooth stones. The hour was moonless and starless, and the air heavy and still, which was why, in her evening dress, she need fear no chill and could get away in the outer darkness, from that provocation of opportunity which had assaulted her within on her sofa, as a beast might have leaped at her throat. Nothing in fact was stranger than the way in which, when she had remained there a little, her companions, watched by her through one of the windows, actually struck her as almost consciously and gratefully safer. They might have been, really charming as they showed in the beautiful room, and Charlotte certainly, as always, magnificently handsome and supremely distinguished. They might have been figures rehearsing some play of which she herself was the author. They might even, for the happy appearance they continued to present, have been such figures as would, by the strong note of character in each, fill any author with the certitude of success, especially of their own histrionic. They might in short have represented any mystery they would, the point being predominantly that the key to the mystery, the key that could wind and unwind it without a snap of the spring, was there in her pocket, or rather no doubt clasp at this crisis in her hand and pressed, as she walked back and forth, to her breast. She walked to the end and far out of the light, she returned and saw the others still where she had left them. She passed round the house and looked into the drawing-room, lighted also, but empty now, and seeming to speak the more, in its own voice, of all the possibilities she controlled. Spacious and splendid, like a stage again awaiting a drama, it was a scene she might people, by the press of her spring, either with serenities and dignities and decencies, or with terrors and shames and ruins, things as ugly as those formless fragments of her golden bowl she was trying so hard to pick up. She continued to walk and continued to pause. She stopped afresh for the look into the smoking-room, and by this time it was as if the recognition had of itself arrested her. She saw, as in a picture, with the temptation she had fled from quite extinct, why it was she had been able to give herself so little from the first to the vulgar heat of her wrong. She might fairly, as she watched them, have missed it as a lost thing, have yearned for it for the straight vindictive view, the rites of resentment, the rages of jealousy, the protests of passion, as for something she had been cheated of, not least. A range of feelings which for many women would have meant so much, but which for her husband's wife, for her father's daughter, figured nothing nearer to experience than a wild eastern caravan, looming into view with crude colors in the sun, fierce pipes in the air, high spears against the sky, all a thrill, a natural joy to mingle with, but turning off short before it reached her in plunging into other defiles. She saw at all events why horror itself had almost failed her. The horror that foreshadowed in advance, would by her thought, have made everything that was unaccustomed in her cry out with pain. The horror of finding evil seated, all at its ease, where she had only dreamed of good. The horror of the thing hideously behind, behind so much trusted, so much pretended nobleness, cleverness, tenderness. It was the first sharp falsity she had known in her life, to touch it all, or be touched by. It had met her like some bad-faced stranger, surprised in one of the thick-carpeted corridors of a house of quiet, on a Sunday afternoon. And yet, yes, amazingly, she had been able to look at terror and disgust, only to know that she must put away from her the bitter sweet of their freshness. The sight from the window of the group so constituted, told her why, told her how, named to her as with hard lips, named straight at her, so that she must take it full in the face, that other possible relation to the whole fact which alone would bear upon her irresistibly. It was extraordinary. They positively brought home to her, that to feel about them in any of the immediate, inevitable, assuaging ways, the ways usually open to innocence outraged and generosity betrayed, would have been to give them up, and that giving them up was marvelously not to be thought of. She had never, from the first hour of her state of acquired conviction, given them up so little as now, though she was no doubt, as the consequence of a step taken a few minutes later, to invoke the conception of doing that, if might be, even less. She had resumed her walk, stopping here and there, while she rested on the cool, smooth, stone balustrade, to draw it out, in the course of which, after a little, she paused again the lights of the empty drawing-room and paused again for what she saw and felt there. It was not at once, however, that this became quite concrete. That was the effect of her presently making out that Charlotte was in the room, launched an erect there in the middle and looking about her. That she had evidently just come round to it from her card-table by one of the passages, with the expectation to all appearance of joining her step-daughter. She had pulled up at seeing the great-room empty, Maggie not having passed out, on leaving the group in a manner to be observed. So definite a quest of her, with the bridge-party interrupted or altered for it, was an impression that fairly assailed the princess, and to which something of attitude and aspect, of the air of arrested pursuit and purpose in Charlotte, together with the suggestion of her next vague movements, quickly added its meaning. This meaning was that she had decided that she had been infinitely conscious of Maggie's presence before, that she knew that she would at last find her alone, and that she wanted her for some reason enough to have presumably called on Bob Asingham for aid. He had taken her chair and let her go, and the arrangement was for Maggie a signal-proof of her earnestness. Of the energy, in fact, that though superficially commonplace in a situation in which people weren't supposed to be watching each other, was what affected our young woman on the spot as a breaking of bars. The splendid, shining, supple creature was out of the cage, was at large, and the question now almost grotesquely rose of whether she mightened by some art just where she was, and before she could go further, be hemmed in and secured. It would have been for a moment in this case, a matter of quickly closing the windows and giving the alarm, with poor Maggie's sense that, though she couldn't know what she wanted of her, it was enough for trepidation that, at these firm hands, anything should be to say nothing of the sequel of a flight taken again along the terrace, even under the shame of the confessed feebleness of such evasions on the part of an outraged wife. It was to this feebleness, none the less, that the outraged wife had presently resorted. The most that could be said for her being, as she felt while she finally stopped short at a distance, that she could at any rate resist her objection sufficiently not to sneak into the house by another way and safely reach her room. She had literally caught herself in the act of dodging and ducking, and it told her there vividly, in a single word, what she had all along been most afraid of. She had been afraid of the particular passage with Charlotte that would determine her father's wife to take him into her confidence, as she couldn't possibly as yet have done, to prepare for him a statement of her wrong, to lay before him the infamy of what she was apparently suspected of. This, should she have made up her mind to do it, would rest on a calculation the thought of which evoked, strangely, other possibilities and visions. It would show her as sufficiently believing in her grasp of her husband to be able to assure herself that, with his daughter thrown on the defensive, with Maggie's cause and Maggie's words and fine against her own, it wasn't Maggie's that would most certainly carry the day. Such a glimpse of her conceivable idea, which would be founded on reasons all her own, reasons of experience and assurance, impenetrable to others, but intimately familiar to herself, such a glimpse opened out wide as soon as it had come into view. For if so much as this was still firm ground between the elder pair, if the beauty of appearances had been so consistently preserved, it was only the golden bowl as Maggie herself knew it that had been broken. The breakage stood not for any wrought discomposure among the triumphant three, it stood merely for the dire deformity of her attitude toward them. She was unable at the minute, of course, fully to measure the difference thus involved for her, and it remained inevitably an agitating image, the way it might be held over her that if she didn't of her own prudence satisfy Charlotte as to the reference in her mocking spirit of so much of the unuttered and unutterable of the constantly and unmistakably implied, her father would be invited without further ceremony to recommend her to do so. But any confidence, any latent operating insolence that Mrs. Verver should, thanks to her large native resources, continued to be possessed of and to hold in reserve, glimmered suddenly as a possible working light and seemed to offer, for meeting her, a new basis and something like a new system. Maggie felt truly a rare contraction of the heart on making out the next instant what the new system would probably have to be, and she had practically done that before perceiving that the things she feared had already taken place. Charlotte extending her search appeared now to define herself vaguely in the distance. Of this after an instant the princess was sure, though the darkness was thick, for the projected clearness of the smoking-room windows had presently contributed its help. Her friend came slowly into that circle, having also for herself by this time not indistinguishably discovered that Maggie was on the terrace. Maggie, from the end, saw her stop before one of the windows to look at the group within, and then saw her come nearer and pause again, still with a considerable length of the place between them. Yes, Charlotte had seen she was watching her from afar, and had stopped now to put her further attention to the test. Her face was fixed on her through the night. She was the creature who had escaped by force from her cage, yet there was in her whole motion assuredly, even as so dimly discerned, a kind of portentous intelligent stillness. She had escaped with an intention, but with an intention the more definite that it could so accord with quiet measures. The two women at all events only hovered there for these first minutes, face to face over their interval and exchanging no sign. The intensity of their mutual look might have pierced the night, and Maggie was at last to start with a scared sense of having thus yielded to doubt, to dread, to hesitation, for a time that with no other proof needed would have completely given her away. How long had she stood staring, a single minute or five? Long enough in any case to have felt herself absolutely take from her visitor something that the latter threw upon her, irresistibly, by this effect of silence, by this effect of waiting and watching, by this effect unmistakably, of timing her indecision and her fear? If then, scared and hanging back, she had, as was so evident, sacrificed all past pretenses, it would have been with the instant knowledge of an immense advantage gained that Charlotte finally saw her come on. Maggie came on with her heart in her hands. She came on with a definite provision, throbbing like the tick of a watch, of a doom impossibly sharp and hard, but to which, after looking at it with her eyes wide open, she had nonetheless bowed her head. By the time she was at her companion's side, for that matter, by the time Charlotte had without a motion, without a word, simply let her approach and stand there, her head was already on the block, so that the consciousness that everything had now gone blurred all perception of whether or no the acts had fallen. Oh, the advantage it was perfectly enough in truth with Mrs. Verver. For what was Maggie's own sense but that of having been thrown over on her back, with her neck, from the first, half broken, and her helpless face staring up? That position could only account for the positive grimace of weakness and pain produced there by Charlotte's dignity. I've come to join you. I thought you would be here. Oh, yes, I'm here. Maggie heard herself return a little flatly. It's too close indoors. Very, but close even here. Charlotte was still in grave. She had even uttered her remark about the temperature with an expressive weight that verged upon solemnity, so that Maggie, reduced to looking vaguely about at the sky, could only feel her not fail of her purpose. The air's heavy as if with thunder. I think there'll be a storm. She made the suggestion to carry off an awkwardness, which was a part always of her companion's gain, but the awkwardness didn't diminish in the silence that followed. Charlotte had said nothing in reply. Her brow was dark as with a fixed expression, and her high elegance, her handsome head and long straight neck testified through the dusk, to their inveterate completeness and noble erectness. It was as if what she had come out to do had already begun, and when, as a consequence, Maggie had said helplessly, Don't you want something? Won't you have my shawl? Everything might have crumbled away in the comparative poverty of the tribute. Mrs. Verver's rejection of it had the brevity of a sign that they hadn't closed in for idle words, just as her dim, serious face, uninterruptedly presented until they moved again, might have represented the success with which she watched all her message penetrate. They presently went back the way she had come, but she stopped Maggie again within range of the smoking-room window and made her stand where the party at cards would be before her. And by side, for three minutes they fixed this picture of quiet harmonies, the positive charm of it, and, as might have been said, the full significance, which, as was now brought home to Maggie, could be no more, after all, than a matter of interpretation, differing always for a different interpreter. As she herself had hovered inside of it a quarter of an hour before, it would have been a thing for her to show Charlotte, to show when righteous irony, and reproach to stern for anything but silence. But now it was she who was being shown it, and shown it by Charlotte, and she saw quickly enough that, as Charlotte showed it, so she must at present submissively seem to take it. The others were absorbed and unconscious, either silent over their game or dropping remarks unheard on the terrace, and it was to her father's quiet face, discernibly expressive of nothing that was in his daughter's mind, that our young woman's attention was most directly given. His wife and his daughter were both closely watching him, and to which of them, could he have been notified of this, would his raised eyes first all impulsively have responded? In which of them would he have felt it most important to destroy, for his clutch at the equilibrium, any germ of uneasiness? Not yet, since his marriage, had Maggie so sharply and so formidably known her old possession of him as a thing divided and contested. She was looking at him by Charlotte's leave and under Charlotte's direction, quite in fact as if the particular way she should look at him were prescribed to her, quite even as if she had been defied to look at him in any other. It came home to her, too, that the challenge wasn't, as might be said, in his interest in forest protection, but pressingly, insistently, in Charlotte's, for that of her security at any price. She might verily, by this dumb demonstration, had been naming to Maggie the price, naming it as a question for Maggie herself, a sum of money that she, properly, was to find. She must remain safe and Maggie must pay, what she was to pay with, being her own affair. Straighter than ever thus the princess again felt it all put upon her, and there was a minute, just a supreme instant, during which there burned in her a wild wish that her father would only look up. It throbbed for these seconds as a yearning appeal to him. She would chance it, that is, if he would but just raise his eyes and catch them, across the larger space, standing in the outer dark together. Then he might be affected by the sight, taking them as they were. He might make some sign, she scarce knew what, that would save her. Save her from being the one, this way, to pay all. He might somehow show a preference, distinguishing between them, might out of pity for her, signal to her that this extremity of her effort for him was more than he asked. That represented Maggie's one little lapse from consistency. The sole small deflection in the whole course of her scheme. It had come to nothing the next minute, for the dear man's eyes had never moved, and Charlotte's hand, promptly passed into her arm, had already, had very firmly drawn her on. Quite for that matter, as from some sudden, some equal perception on her part too, of the more ways than one in which their impression could appeal. They retraced their steps along the rest of the terrace, turning the corner of the house, and presently came abreast of the other windows, those of the pompous drawing-room, still lighted and still empty. Here Charlotte again paused, and it was again as if she were pointing out what Maggie had observed for herself, the very look the place had of being vivid in its stillness, of having, with all its great objects as ordered and balanced as for a formal reception, been appointed for some high transaction, some real affair of state. In presence of this opportunity she faced her companion once more. She traced in her the effect of everything she had already communicated. She signified, with the same success, that the terrace and the cellar night would bear two meager witness to the completion of her idea. Soon enough then within the room, under the old lusters of Venice and the eyes of the several great portraits, more or less contemporary with these, that are weighted on the walls of fawns their final far migration, soon enough Maggie found herself staring, and at first all too gaspingly, at the grand total to which each separate demand Mrs. Berver had hitherto made upon her, however she had made it, now amounted. I've been wanting, and longer than you'd perhaps believe, to put a question to you for which no opportunity has seemed to me yet quite so good as this. It would have been easier perhaps if you had struck me as in the least disposed ever to give me one. I have to take it now, you see, as I find it. They stood in the center of the immense room, and Maggie could feel that the scene of life her imagination had made of it twenty minutes before was by this time sufficiently peopled. These few straight words filled it to its uttermost reaches, and nothing was now absent from her consciousness either of the part she was called upon to play in it. Charlotte had marched straight in, dragging her rich train. She rose there beautiful and free, with her whole aspect and action attuned to the firmness of her speech. Maggie had kept the shawl she had taken out with her, and clutching it tight in her nervousness, drew it round her as if huddling in it for shelter, covering herself with it for humility. She looked out as from under an improvised hood, the sole headgear of some poor woman at somebody's proud door. She waited even like the poor woman. She met her friend's eyes with recognitions she couldn't suppress. She might sound it as she could. What question, then? Everything in her, from head to foot, crowded it upon Charlotte that she knew. She knew too well that she was showing, so that successful vagueness to save some scrap of her dignity from the eminence of her defeat was already a lost cause, and the one thing left was, if possible, at any cost, even that of stupid inconsequence, to try to look as if she weren't afraid. If she could but appear at all not afraid, she might appear a little not ashamed—that is, not ashamed to be afraid, which was the kind of shame that could be fastened on her, it being fear all the while that moved her. Her challenge at any rate, her wonder, her terror, the blank blurred surface, whatever it was that she presented, became a mixture that ceased to signify, for to the accumulated advantage by which Charlotte was at present sustained, her next words themselves had little to add. Have you any ground of complaint of me? Is there any wrong you consider I've done you? I feel at last that I have a right to ask you. Their eyes had to meet on it and to meet long. Maggies avoided at least the disgrace of looking away. What makes you want to ask it? My natural desire to know. You've done that for so long, little justice. Maggie waited a moment. For so long? You mean you thought? I mean, my dear, that I've seen. I've seen, week after week, that you seem to be thinking of something that perplexed or worried you. Is it anything for which I'm in any degree responsible? Maggie summoned all her powers. What in the world should it be? Ah, that's not for me to imagine, and I should be very sorry to have to try to say. I'm aware of no point whatever at which I may have failed you, said Charlotte, nor of any at which I may have failed any one in whom I can suppose you sufficiently interested to care. If I've been guilty of some fault I've committed it all unconsciously, and am only anxious to hear from you honestly about it. But if I've been mistaken as to what I speak of, the difference more and more marked as I've thought in all your manner to me, why, obviously, so much the better. No form of correction received from you could give me greater satisfaction. She spoke, it struck her companion, with rising, with extraordinary ease, as if hearing herself say it all, besides seeing the way it was listened to, helped her from point to point. She saw she was right, that this was the tone for her to take, and the thing for her to do, the thing as to which she was probably feeling that she had in advance, in her delays and uncertainties, much exaggerated the difficulty. The difficulty was small, and it grew smaller as her adversary continued to shrink. She was not only doing as she wanted, but had by this time effectively done it and hung it up, all of which but deepened Maggie's sense of the sharp and simple need now of seeing her through to the end. If you've been mistaken, you say, and the princess but barely faltered. You have been mistaken. Charlotte looked at her splendidly hard. You're perfectly sure it's all my mistake? All I can say is that you've received a false impression. Ah, then so much the better, from the moment I had received it I knew I must sooner or later speak of it, for that you see is systematically my way. And now, Charlotte added, you make me glad I've spoken. I thank you very much. It was strange how for Maggie, too, with this the difficulty seemed to sink. Her companion's acceptance of her denial was like a general pledge not to keep things any worse for her than they essentially had to be. It positively helped her to build up her falsehood, to which accordingly she contributed another block. I've affected you evidently, quite accidentally, in some way of which I've been all unaware. I've not felt at any time that you've wronged me. How could I come within a mile, Charlotte inquired, of such a possibility? Maggie, with her eyes on her more easily now, made no attempt to say. She said after a little something more to the present point. I accuse you. I accuse you of nothing. Ah, that's lucky. Charlotte had brought this out with the richness almost of gaiety, and Maggie, to go on, had to think with her own intensity of Amorigo, to think how he, on his side, had had to go through with his lie to her, how it was for his wife he had done so, and how his doing so had given her the clue and set her the example. He must have had his own difficulty about it, and she was not, after all, falling below him. It was in fact as if, thanks to her hovering image of him confronted with this admirable creature, even as she was confronted, there glowed upon her from afar, yet straight and strong, a deep explanatory light which covered the last inch of the ground. He had given her something to conform to, and she hadn't unintelligently turned on him, gone back on him, as he would have said, by not conforming. They were together thus he and she, close, close together, whereas Charlotte, though rising there radiantly before her, was really often some darkness of space that would steep her in solitude and harass her with care. The heart of the Princess swelled accordingly, even in her abasement. She had kept in tune with the right, and something certainly, something that might be like a rare flower snatched from an impossible ledge, would impossibly soon come of it for her. The right, the right, yes, it took this extraordinary former for humbugging, as she had called it, to the end. It was only a question of not, by a hair's breath, deflecting into the truth. So supremely was she braced. You must take it from me that your anxiety rests quite on a misconception. You must take it from me that I've never at any moment fancied I could suffer by you. And marvelously she kept it up, not only kept it up, but improved on it. You must take it from me that I've never thought of you but is beautiful, wonderful, and good, which is all I think that you can possibly ask. Charlotte held her a moment longer. She needed, not then to have appeared only tactless, the last word. It's much more my dear than I dreamed of asking. I only wanted your denial. Well, then, you have it. On your honor upon my honor. And she made a point even, our young woman, of not turning away. Her grip of her shawl had loosened. She had let it fall behind her. But she stood there for anything more until the weight should be lifted, with which she saw soon enough what more was to come. She saw it in Charlotte's face and felt it make between them in the air, a chill that completed the coldness of their conscious perjury. Will you kiss me on it, then? She couldn't say yes, but she didn't say no. What availed her still, however, was to measure, in her passivity, how much too far Charlotte had come to retreat. But there was something different also, something for which, while her cheek received the prodigious kiss, she had her opportunity. The sight of the others, who having risen from their cards to join the absent members of their party, had reached the open door at the end of the room and stopped short, evidently, in presence of the demonstration that awaited them. Her husband and her father were in front, and Charlotte's embrace of her, which wasn't to be distinguished for them either, she felt, from her embrace of Charlotte, took on with their arrival a high publicity. End of chapter 36