And this indeed fixed again, for a moment, his intention. “Has Charlotte complained of the want of rooms for her friends?”
“Never, that I know of, a word. It isn’t the sort of thing she does. And whom has she, after all,” Mrs. Assingham added, “to complain to?”
“Hasn’t she always you?”
“Oh, ‘me’! Charlotte and I, nowadays—!” She spoke as of a chapter closed. “Yet see the justice I still do her. She strikes me, more and more, as extraordinary.”
A deeper shade, at the renewal of the word, had come into the Colonel’s face. “If they’re each and all so extraordinary then, isn’t that why one must just resign one’s self to wash one’s hands of them—to be lost?” Her face, however, so met the question as if it were but a flicker of the old tone that their trouble had now become too real for—her charged eyes so betrayed the condition of her nerves that he stepped back, alertly enough, to firmer ground. He had spoken before in this light of a plain man’s vision, but he must be something more than a plain man now. “Hasn’t she then, Charlotte, always her husband—?”
“To complain to? She’d rather die.”
“Oh!”—and Bob Assingham’s face, at the vision of such extremities, lengthened for very docility. “Hasn’t she the Prince then?”
“For such matters? Oh, he doesn’t count.”
“I thought that was just what—as the basis of our agitation—he does do!”
Mrs. Assingham, however, had her distinction ready. “Not a bit as a person to bore with complaints. The ground of MY agitation is, exactly, that she never on any pretext bores him. Not Charlotte!” And in the imagination of Mrs. Verver’s superiority to any such mistake she gave, characteristically, something like a toss of her head—as marked a tribute to that lady’s general grace, in all the conditions, as the personage referred to doubtless had ever received.