did this too strike her as something again to be made up for. It has saddled her, you’ll easily see, with a positively new obligation to her father, an obligation created and aggravated by her unfortunate even if quite heroic little sense of justice. She began with wanting to show him that his marriage could never, under whatever temptation of her own bliss with the Prince, become for her a pretext for deserting or neglecting him. Then that, in its order, entailed her wanting to show the Prince that she recognised how the other desire – this wish to remain, intensely, the same passionate little daughter she had always been – involved in some degree and just for the present, so to speak, her neglecting and deserting him. I quite hold,’ Fanny with characteristic amplitude parenthesised, ‘that a person can mostly feel but one passion – one tender passion, that is – at a time. Only that doesn’t hold good for our primary and instinctive attachments, the “voice of blood”, such as one’s feeling for a parent or a brother. Those may be intense and yet not prevent other intensities – as you’ll recognise, my dear, when you remember how I continued, tout bêtement,1 to adore my mother, whom you didn’t adore, for years after I had begun to adore you. Well, Maggie’ – she kept it up – ‘is in the same situation as I was, plus complications from which I was, thank heaven; exempt: plus the complication above all of not having in the least begun with the sense for complications that I should have had. Before she knew it at any rate her little scruples and her little lucidities, which were really so divinely blind – her feverish little sense of justice, as I say – had brought the two others together as her grossest misconduct couldn’t have done. And now she knows something or other has happened – yet hasn’t heretofore known what. She has only piled up her remedy, poor child – something that she has earnestly but confusedly seen as her necessary policy; piled it on top of the policy, on top of the remedy, that she at first thought out for herself and that would really have needed since then so much modification. Her only modification has been the growth of her necessity to prevent her father’s wondering if all, in their life in common, may be so certainly for the best. She has now as never before to keep him unconscious that, peculiar, if he makes a point of it, as their situation is, there’s anything in it all uncomfortable or disagreeable, anything morally the least out of the way. She has to keep touching it up to make it, each day, each month, look natural and normal to him; so that – God forgive me the comparison! – she’s like an old woman who has taken to “painting”2 and who has to lay it on thicker, to carry it off with a greater audacity, with a greater impudence even, the older she grows.’ And Fanny stood a moment captivated with the image she had thrown off. ‘I like the idea of Maggie audacious and impudent – learning to be so to gloss things over. She could – she even will, yet, I believe – learn it, for that sacred purpose, consummately, diabolically. For from the moment the dear man should see it’s all rouge –!’ She paused, staring at the vision.
It imparted itself even to Bob. ‘Then the fun would begin?’ As it but made her look at him hard, however, he amended the form of his enquiry. ‘You mean that in that case she will, charming creature, be lost?’
She was silent a moment more. ‘As I’ve told you before, she won’t be lost if her father’s saved. She’ll see that as salvation enough.’
The Colonel took it in. ‘Then she’s a little heroine.’
‘Rather – she’s a little heroine. But it’s his innocence, above all,’ Mrs Assingham added, ‘that will pull them through.’
Her companion, at this, focussed again Mr Verver’s innocence. ‘It’s awfully quaint.’
‘Of course it’s awfully quaint! That it’s awfully quaint, that the pair are awfully quaint, quaint with all our dear old quaintness – by which I don’t mean yours and mine, but that of my own sweet country-people, from whom I’ve so deplorably degenerated – that,’ Mrs Assingham declared,