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whim of his own, a part of his Anglomania, and congruous with that feature, which had, after all, so much more surface than depth. When his companion, with the memory of other visits and other rambles, spoke of places he hadnā€™t seen and things he didnā€™t know, he actually felt againā ā€”as half the effectā ā€”just a shade humiliated. He might even have felt a trifle annoyedā ā€”if it hadnā€™t been, on this spot, for his being, even more, interested. It was a fresh light on Charlotte and on her curious world-quality, of which, in Rome, he had had his due sense, but which clearly would show larger on the big London stage. Rome was, in comparison, a village, a family-party, a little old-world spinnet for the fingers of one hand. By the time they reached the Marble Arch it was almost as if she were showing him a new side, and that, in fact, gave amusement a new and a firmer basis. The right tone would be easy for putting himself in her hands. Should they disagree a littleā ā€”frankly and fairlyā ā€”about directions and chances, values and authenticities, the situation would be quite gloriously saved. They were none the less, as happened, much of one mind on the article of their keeping clear of resorts with which Maggie would be acquainted. Charlotte recalled it as a matter of course, named it in time as a conditionā ā€”they would keep away from any place to which he had already been with Maggie.

This made indeed a scant difference, for though he had during the last month done few things so much as attend his future wife on her making of purchases, the antiquarii, as he called them with Charlotte, had not been the great affair. Except in Bond Street, really, Maggie had had no use for them: her situation indeed, in connection with that order of traffic, was full of consequences produced by her fatherā€™s. Mr. Verver, one of the great collectors of the world, hadnā€™t left his daughter to prowl for herself; he had little to do with shops, and was mostly, as a purchaser, approached privately and from afar. Great people, all over Europe, sought introductions to him; high personages, incredibly high, and more of them than would ever be known, solemnly sworn as everyone was, in such cases, to discretion, high personages made up to him as the one man on the short authentic list likely to give the price. It had therefore been easy to settle, as they walked, that the tracks of the Ververs, daughterā€™s as well as fatherā€™s, were to be avoided; the importance only was that their talk about it led for a moment to the first words they had as yet exchanged on the subject of Maggie. Charlotte, still in the Park, proceeded to themā ā€”for it was she who beganā ā€”with a serenity of appreciation that was odd, certainly, as a sequel to her words of ten minutes before. This was another note on herā ā€”what he would have called another lightā ā€”for her companion, who, though without giving a sign, admired, for what it was, the simplicity of her transition, a transition that took no trouble either to trace or to explain itself. She paused again an instant, on the grass, to make it; she stopped before him with a sudden ā€œAnything of course, dear as she is, will do for her. I mean if I were to give her a pincushion from the Baker-Street Bazaar.ā€

ā€œThatā€™s exactly what I meantā€ā ā€”the Prince laughed out this allusion to their snatch of talk in Portland Place. ā€œItā€™s just what I suggested.ā€

She took, however, no notice of the reminder; she went on in her own way. ā€œBut it isnā€™t a reason. In that case one would never do anything for her. I mean,ā€ Charlotte explained, ā€œif one took advantage of her character.ā€

ā€œOf her character?ā€

ā€œWe mustnā€™t take advantage of her character,ā€ the girl, again unheeding, pursued. ā€œOne mustnā€™t, if not for her, at least for oneā€™s self. She saves one such trouble.ā€

She had spoken thoughtfully, with her eyes on her friendā€™s; she might have been talking, preoccupied and practical, of someone with whom he was comparatively unconnected. ā€œShe certainly gives one no trouble,ā€ said the Prince. And then as if this were perhaps ambiguous or inadequate: ā€œSheā€™s not selfishā ā€”God forgive her!ā ā€”enough.ā€

ā€œThatā€™s what I mean,ā€ Charlotte instantly said. ā€œSheā€™s not selfish enough. Thereā€™s nothing, absolutely, that one need do for her. Sheā€™s so modest,ā€ she developedā ā€”ā€œshe doesnā€™t miss things. I mean if you love herā ā€”or, rather, I should say, if she loves you. She lets it go.ā€

The Prince frowned a littleā ā€”as a tribute, after all, to seriousness. ā€œShe lets whatā ā€”?ā€

ā€œAnythingā ā€”anything that you might do and that you donā€™t. She lets everything go but her own disposition to be kind to you. Itā€™s of herself that she asks effortsā ā€”so far as she ever has to ask them. She hasnā€™t, much. She does everything herself. And thatā€™s terrible.ā€

The Prince had listened; but, always with propriety, he didnā€™t commit himself. ā€œTerrible?ā€

ā€œWell, unless one is almost as good as she. It makes too easy terms for one. It takes stuff, within one, so far as oneā€™s decency is concerned, to stand it. And nobody,ā€ Charlotte continued in the same manner, ā€œis decent enough, good enough, to stand itā ā€”not without help from religion, or something of that kind. Not without prayer and fastingā ā€”that is without taking great care. Certainly,ā€ she said, ā€œsuch people as you and I are not.ā€

The Prince, obligingly, thought an instant. ā€œNot good enough to stand it?ā€

ā€œWell, not good enough not rather to feel the strain. We happen each, I think, to be of the kind that are easily spoiled.ā€

Her friend, again, for propriety, followed the argument. ā€œOh, I donā€™t know. May not oneā€™s affection for her do something more for oneā€™s decency, as you call it, than her own generosityā ā€”her own affection, her ā€˜decencyā€™ā ā€”has the unfortunate virtue to undo?ā€

ā€œAh, of course it must be all in that.ā€

But she had made her question, all the same, interesting to him.

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