What Maisie Knew eBook

He jumped up with a delighted laugh.  “Remember?  Rather!  You brought us together, you brought us together.  Come!”

XXXI

She remained out with him for a time of which she could take no measure save that it was too short for what she wished to make of it—­an interval, a barrier indefinite, insurmountable.  They walked about, they dawdled, they looked in shop-windows; they did all the old things exactly as if to try to get back all the old safety, to get something out of them that they had always got before.  This had come before, whatever it was, without their trying, and nothing came now but the intenser consciousness of their quest and their subterfuge.  The strangest thing of all was what had really happened to the old safety.  What had really happened was that Sir Claude was “free” and that Mrs. Beale was “free,” and yet that the new medium was somehow still more oppressive than the old.  She could feel that Sir Claude concurred with her in the sense that the oppression would be worst at the inn, where, till something should be settled, they would feel the want of something—­of what could they call it but a footing?  The question of the settlement loomed larger to her now:  it depended, she had learned, so completely on herself.  Her choice, as her friend had called it, was there before her like an impossible sum on a slate, a sum that in spite of her plea for consideration she simply got off from doing while she walked about with him.  She must see Mrs.

Wix before she could do her sum; therefore the longer before she saw her the more distant would be the ordeal.  She met at present no demand whatever of her obligation; she simply plunged, to avoid it, deeper into the company of Sir Claude.  She saw nothing that she had seen hitherto—­no touch in the foreign picture that had at first been always before her.  The only touch was that of Sir Claude’s hand, and to feel her own in it was her mute resistance to time.  She went about as sightlessly as if he had been leading her blindfold.  If they were afraid of themselves it was themselves they would find at the inn.  She was certain now that what awaited them there would be to lunch with Mrs. Beale.  All her instinct was to avoid that, to draw out their walk, to find pretexts, to take him down upon the beach, to take him to the end of the pier.  He said no other word to her about what they had talked of at breakfast, and she had a dim vision of how his way of not letting her see him definitely wait for anything from her would make any one who should know of it, would make Mrs. Wix for instance, think him more than ever a gentleman.  It was true that once or twice, on the jetty, on the sands, he looked at her for a minute with eyes that seemed to propose to her to come straight off with him to Paris.  That, however, was not to give her a nudge about her responsibility.  He evidently wanted to procrastinate quite as much as she did; he was not a bit more in