had been from the first something in her anxious eyes, in the way she occasionally lost herself, that it would perfectly explain. He was therefore now quite sure.
“You’ve got something up your sleeve.”
She had a silence that made him right. “Well, when I tell you you’ll understand. It’s only up my sleeve in the sense of being in a letter I got this morning. All day, yes—it HAS been in my mind. I’ve been asking myself if it were quite the right moment, or in any way fair, to ask you if you could stand just now another woman.”
It relieved him a little, yet the beautiful consideration of her manner made it in a degree portentous. “Stand one—?”
“Well, mind her coming.”
He stared—then he laughed. “It depends on who she is.”
“There—you see! I’ve at all events been thinking whether you’d take this particular person but as a worry the more. Whether, that is, you’d go so far with her in your notion of having to be kind.”
He gave at this the quickest shake to his foot. How far would she go in HER notion of it.
“Well,” his daughter returned, “you know how far, in a general way, Charlotte Stant goes.”
“Charlotte? Is SHE coming?”
“She writes me, practically, that she’d like to if we’re so good as to ask her.”
Mr. Verver continued to gaze, but rather as if waiting for more. Then, as everything appeared to have come, his expression had a drop. If this was all it was simple. “Then why in the world not?”
Maggie’s face lighted anew, but it was now another light. “It isn’t a want of tact?”
“To ask her?”
“To propose it to you.”
“That I should ask her?”
He put the question as an effect of his remnant of vagueness, but this had also its own effect. Maggie wondered an instant; after which, as with a flush of recognition, she took it up. “It would be too beautiful if you WOULD!”
This, clearly, had not been her first idea—the chance of his words had prompted it. “Do you mean write to her myself?”
“Yes—it would be kind. It would be quite beautiful of you. That is, of course,” said Maggie, “if you sincerely CAN.”
He appeared to wonder an instant why he sincerely shouldn’t, and indeed, for that matter, where the question of sincerity came in. This virtue, between him and his daughter’s friend, had surely been taken for granted. “My dear child,” he returned, “I don’t think I’m afraid of Charlotte.”
“Well, that’s just what it’s lovely to have from you. From the moment you’re NOT—the least little bit—I’ll immediately invite her.”
“But where in the world is she?” He spoke as if he had not thought of Charlotte, nor so much as heard her name pronounced, for a very long time. He quite in fact amicably, almost amusedly, woke up to her.
“She’s in Brittany, at a little bathing-place, with some people I don’t know. She’s always with people, poor dear—she rather has to be; even when, as is sometimes the case; they’re people she doesn’t immensely like.”
“Well, I guess she likes US,” said Adam Verver. “Yes—fortunately she likes us. And if I wasn’t afraid of spoiling it for you,” Maggie added, “I’d even mention that you’re not the one of our number she likes least.”
“Why should that spoil it for me?”
“Oh, my dear, you know. What else have we been talking about? It costs you so much to be liked. That’s why I hesitated to tell you of my letter.”
He stared a moment—as if the subject had suddenly grown out of recognition. “But Charlotte—on other visits—never used to cost me anything.”
“No—only her ‘keep,’” Maggie smiled.
“Then I don’t think I mind her keep—if that’s all.” The Princess, however, it was clear, wished to be thoroughly conscientious. “Well, it may not be quite all. If I think of its being pleasant to have her, it’s because she WILL make a difference.”
“Well, what’s the harm in that if it’s but a difference for the better?”
“Ah then—there you are!” And the Princess showed in her smile her small triumphant wisdom. “If you acknowledge a possible difference for the better we’re not, after all, so tremendously right as we are. I mean we’re not—as satisfied and amused. We do see there are ways of being grander.”
“But will Charlotte Stant,” her father asked with surprise, “make us grander?”
Maggie, on this, looking at him well, had a remarkable reply. “Yes, I think. Really grander.”
He thought; for if this was a sudden opening he wished but the more to meet it. “Because she’s so handsome?”
“No, father.” And the Princess was almost solemn. “Because she’s so great.”
“Great—?”
“Great in nature, in character, in spirit. Great in life.”
“So?” Mr. Verver echoed. “What has she done—in life?”
“Well, she has been brave and bright,” said Maggie. “That mayn’t sound like much, but she has been so in the face of things that might well have made it too difficult for many other girls. She hasn’t a creature in the world really—that is nearly—belonging to her. Only acquaintances who, in all sorts of ways, make use of her, and distant relations who are so afraid she’ll make use of THEM that they seldom let her look at them.”
Mr. Verver was struck—and, as usual, to some purpose. “If we get her here to improve us don’t we too then make use of her?”
It pulled the Princess up, however, but an instant. “We’re old, old friends—we do her good too. I should always, even at the worst—speaking for myself—admire her still more than I used her.”
“I see. That always does good.”
Maggie hesitated. “Certainly—she knows it. She knows, I mean, how great I think her courage and her cleverness. She’s not afraid—not of anything; and yet she no more ever takes a liberty with you than if she trembled for her life. And then she’s INTERESTING—which plenty of other people with plenty of other merits never are a bit.” In which fine flicker of vision the truth widened to the Princess’s view. “I myself of course don’t take liberties, but then I do, always, by nature, tremble for my life. That’s the way I live.”
“Oh I say, love!” her father vaguely murmured.
“Yes,
