Maggie looked at her long. “Yes—I help him to do that.”
Mrs. Assingham hesitated, but at last her bravery flared. “Why not call it then frankly his complete success?”
“Well,” said Maggie, “that’s all that’s left me to do.”
“It’s a success,” her friend ingeniously developed, “with which you’ve simply not interfered.” And as if to show that she spoke without levity Mrs. Assingham went further. “He has made it a success for THEM—!”
“Ah, there you are!” Maggie responsively mused. “Yes,” she said the next moment, “that’s why Amerigo stays.”
“Let alone it’s why Charlotte goes.” that Mrs. Assingham, and emboldened, smiled “So he knows—?”
But Maggie hung back. “Amerigo—?” After which, however, she blushed—to her companion’s recognition.
“Your father. He knows what YOU know? I mean,” Fanny faltered—“well, how much does he know?” Maggie’s silence and Maggie’s eyes had in fact arrested the push of the question—which, for a decent consistency, she couldn’t yet quite abandon. “What I should rather say is does he know how much?” She found it still awkward. “How much, I mean, they did. How far”—she touched it up—“they went.”
Maggie had waited, but only with a question. “Do you think he does?”
“Know at least something? Oh, about him I can’t think. He’s beyond me,” said Fanny Assingham.