In front of them on the grass he looked graver than
Maisie at all now thought the occasion warranted.
“I don’t see why you can’t say it
before me.”
His wife smoothed one of her daughter’s curls.
“Say what, dear?”
“Why what you came to say.”
At this Maisie at last interposed: she appealed
to Sir Claude. “Do let her say it to me.”
He looked hard for a moment at his little friend.
“How do you know what she may say?”
“She must risk it,” Ida remarked.
“I only want to protect you,” he continued
to the child.
“You want to protect yourself—that’s
what you mean,” his wife replied. “Don’t
be afraid. I won’t touch you.”
“She won’t touch you—she won’t!”
Maisie declared. She felt by this time that she
could really answer for it, and something of the emotion
with which she had listened to the Captain came back
to her. It made her so happy and so secure that
she could positively patronise mamma. She did
so in the Captain’s very language. “She’s
good, she’s good!” she proclaimed.
“Oh Lord!”—Sir Claude, at this,
let himself go. He appeared to have emitted some
sound of derision that was smothered, to Maisie’s
ears, by her being again embraced by his wife.
Ida released her and held her off a little, looking
at her with a very queer face. Then the child
became aware that their companion had left them and
that from the face in question a confirmatory remark
had proceeded.
“I am good, love,” said her ladyship.
A good deal of the rest of Ida’s visit was devoted
to explaining, as it were, so extraordinary a statement.
This explanation was more copious than any she had
yet indulged in, and as the summer twilight gathered
and she kept her child in the garden she was conciliatory
to a degree that let her need to arrange things a
little perceptibly peep out. It was not merely
that she explained; she almost conversed; all that
was wanting was that she should have positively chattered
a little less. It was really the occasion of
Maisie’s life on which her mother was to have
most to say to her. That alone was an implication
of generosity and virtue, and no great stretch was
required to make our young lady feel that she should
best meet her and soonest have it over by simply seeming
struck with the propriety of her contention. They
sat together while the parent’s gloved hand
sometimes rested sociably on the child’s and
sometimes gave a corrective pull to a ribbon too meagre
or a tress too thick; and Maisie was conscious of
the effort to keep out of her eyes the wonder with
which they were occasionally moved to blink. Oh
there would have been things to blink at if one had
let one’s self go; and it was lucky they were
alone together, without Sir Claude or Mrs. Wix or
even Mrs. Beale to catch an imprudent glance.
Though profuse and prolonged her ladyship was not
