Mrs. Beale, at the glass again, made play with a powder-puff. "My own sweet, she's mistaken!" was all she said.
There was a certain force in the very amenity of this, but our young lady reflected long enough to remember that it was not the answer Sir Claude himself had made. The recollection nevertheless failed to prevent her saying: "Do you mean then that he won't come till he has got it?"
Mrs. Beale gave a last touch; she was ready; she stood there in all her elegance. "I mean, my dear, that it's because he hasn't got it that I left him."
This opened a view that stretched further than Maisie could reach. She turned away from it, but she spoke before they went out again. "Do you like Mrs. Wix now?"
"Why, my chick, I was just going to ask you if you think she has come at all to like poor bad me!"
Maisie thought, at this hint; but unsuccessfully. "I haven't the least idea. But I'll find out."
"Do!" said Mrs. Beale, rustling out with her in a scented air and as if it would be a very particular favour.
The child tried promptly at bed-time, relieved now of the fear that their visitor would wish to separate her for the night from her attendant. "Have you held out?" she began as soon as the two doors at the end of the passage were again closed on them.
Mrs. Wix looked hard at the flame of the candle. "Held out—?"
"Why, she has been making love to you. Has she won you over?"