Mrs. Assingham waited. "And that was all?"
"Wasn't it quite enough?"
"Oh, love," she bridled, "that's for you to have judged!"
"Then I HAVE judged," said Maggie—"I did judge. I made sure he understood—then I let him alone."
Mrs. Assingham wondered. "But he didn't explain—?"
"Explain? Thank God, no!" Maggie threw back her head as with horror at the thought, then the next moment added: "And I didn't, either."
The decency of pride in it shed a cold little light—yet as from heights at the base of which her companion rather panted. "But if he neither denies nor confesses—?"
"He does what's a thousand times better—he lets it alone. He does," Maggie went on, "as he would do; as I see now that I was sure he would. He lets me alone."
Fanny Assingham turned it over. "Then how do you know so where, as you say, you 'are'?"
"Why, just BY that. I put him in possession of the difference; the difference made, about me, by the fact that I hadn't been, after all—though with a wonderful chance, I admitted, helping me—too stupid to have arrived at knowledge. He had to see that I'm changed for him—quite changed from the idea of me that he had so long been going on with. It became a question then of his really taking in the change—and what I now see is that he is doing so."