“It has everything. You’ll see.” With which again, however, for the moment, Maggie attached to her strange wide eyes. “He knew her before—before I had ever seen him.”
“‘He’ knew—?” But Fanny, while she cast about her for the links she missed, could only echo it.
“Amerigo knew Charlotte—more than I ever dreamed.”
Fanny felt then it was stare for stare. “But surely you always knew they had met.”
“I didn’t understand. I knew too little. Don’t you see what I mean?” the Princess asked.
Mrs. Assingham wondered, during these instants, how much she even now knew; it had taken a minute to perceive how gently she was speaking. With that perception of its being no challenge of wrath, no heat of the deceived soul, but only a free exposure of the completeness of past ignorance, inviting derision even if it must, the elder woman felt, first, a strange, barely credible relief: she drew in, as if it had been the warm summer scent of a flower, the sweet certainty of not meeting, any way she should turn, any consequence of judgment. She shouldn’t be judged—save by herself; which was her own wretched business. The next moment, however, at all events, she blushed, within, for her immediate cowardice: she had thought of herself, thought of “getting off,” before so much as thinking—that is of pitifully seeing—that she was in presence of an appeal that was ALL an appeal, that utterly accepted its necessity. “In a general way, dear child, yes. But not—a—in connexion with what you’ve been telling me.”
“They were intimate, you see. Intimate,” said the Princess.
Fanny continued to face her, taking from her excited eyes this history, so dim and faint for all her anxious emphasis, of the far-away other time. “There’s always the question of what one considers—!”
“What one considers intimate? Well, I know what I consider intimate now. Too intimate,” said Maggie, “to let me know anything about it.”
It was quiet—yes; but not too quiet for Fanny Assingham’s capacity to wince. “Only compatible with letting ME, you mean?” She had asked it after a pause, but turning again to the new ornament of the chimney and wondering, even while she took relief from it, at this gap in her experience. “But here are things, my dear, of which my ignorance is perfect.”