"But, I mean, does she love you for yourself, as they call it, don't you know? Is she as fond of you, now, as Mrs. Wix?"
The child turned it over. "Oh I'm not every bit Mrs. Beale has!"
Sir Claude seemed much amused at this. "No; you're not every bit she has!"
He laughed for some moments, but that was an old story to Maisie, who was not too much disconcerted to go on: "But she'll never give me up."
"Well, I won't either, old boy: so that's not so wonderful, and she's not the only one. But if she's so fond of you, why doesn't she write to you?"
"Oh on account of mamma." This was rudimentary, and she was almost surprised at the simplicity of Sir Claude's question.
"I see—that's quite right," he answered. "She might get at you—there are all sorts of ways. But of course there's Mrs. Wix."
"There's Mrs. Wix," Maisie lucidly concurred. "Mrs. Wix can't abide her."
Sir Claude seemed interested. "Oh she can't abide her? Then what does she say about her?"
"Nothing at all—because she knows I shouldn't like it. Isn't it sweet of her?" the child asked.