For that then, when it had had time somewhat to settle, like some handful of gold-dust thrown into the air—for that then Maggie showed herself, as deeply and strangely taking it. “I see.” And she even wished this form to be as complete as she could make it. “I see.”
The completeness, clearly, after an instant, had struck him as divine. “Ah, my dear, my dear, my dear—!” It was all he could say.
She wasn’t talking, however, at large. “You’ve kept up for so long a silence—!”
“Yes, yes, I know what I’ve kept up. But will you do,” he asked, “still one thing more for me?”
It was as if, for an instant, with her new exposure, it had made her turn pale. “Is there even one thing left?”
“Ah, my dear, my dear, my dear!”—it had pressed again in him the fine spring of the unspeakable. There was nothing, however, that the Princess herself couldn’t say. “I’ll do anything, if you’ll tell me what.”
“Then wait.” And his raised Italian hand, with its play of admonitory fingers, had never made gesture more expressive. His voice itself dropped to a tone—! “Wait,” he repeated. “Wait.”
She understood, but it was as if she wished to have it from him. “Till they’ve been here, you mean?”
“Yes, till they’ve gone. Till they’re away.”
She kept it up. “Till they’ve left the country?” She had her eyes on him for clearness; these were the conditions of a promise—so that he put the promise, practically, into his response. “Till we’ve ceased to see them—for as long as God may grant! Till we’re really alone.”