“She’s very nice; but she always seems to me, more than anything else, the young woman who has a million a year. If you mean that that’s what she especially seemed to him, you of course place the thing in your light. The effort to forget Charlotte couldn’t, I grant you, have been so difficult.”
This pulled her up but for an instant. “I never said he didn’t from the first—I never said that he doesn’t more and more—like Maggie’s money.”
“I never said I shouldn’t have liked it myself,” Bob Assingham returned. He made no movement; he smoked another minute. “How much did Maggie know?”
“How much?” She seemed to consider—as if it were between quarts and gallons—how best to express the quantity. “She knew what Charlotte, in Florence, had told her.”
“And what had Charlotte told her?”
“Very little.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Why, this—that she couldn’t tell her.” And she explained a little what she meant. “There are things, my dear—haven’t you felt it yourself, coarse as you are?—that no one could tell Maggie. There are things that, upon my word, I shouldn’t care to attempt to tell her now.”
The Colonel smoked on it. “She’d be so scandalised?”
“She’d be so frightened. She’d be, in her strange little way, so hurt. She wasn’t born to know evil. She must never know it.” Bob Assingham had a queer grim laugh; the sound of which, in fact, fixed his wife before him. “We’re taking grand ways to prevent it.”