He was smoking a cigarette and he stood before the
fire and looked at the meagre appointments of the
room in a way that made her rather ashamed of them.
Then before (on the subject of Mrs. Beale) he let her
“draw” him—that was another
of his words; it was astonishing how many she gathered
in—he remarked that really mamma kept them
rather low on the question of decorations. Mrs.
Wix had put up a Japanese fan and two rather grim
texts; she had wished they were gayer, but they were
all she happened to have. Without Sir Claude’s
photograph, however, the place would have been, as
he said, as dull as a cold dinner. He had said
as well that there were all sorts of things they ought
to have; yet governess and pupil, it had to be admitted,
were still divided between discussing the places where
any sort of thing would look best if any sort of thing
should ever come and acknowledging that mutability
in the child’s career which was naturally unfavourable
to accumulation. She stayed long enough only
to miss things, not half long enough to deserve them.
The way Sir Claude looked about the schoolroom had
made her feel with humility as if it were not very
different from the shabby attic in which she had visited
Susan Ash. Then he had said in abrupt reference
to Mrs. Beale: “Do you think she really
cares for you?”
“Oh awfully!” Maisie had replied.
“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.”
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.
“Certainly; rather nice. Mrs. Beale wouldn’t
hold her tongue for any such thing as that, would
she?”
Maisie remembered how little she had done so; but
she desired to protect Mrs. Beale too. The only
protection she could think of, however, was the plea:
“Oh at papa’s, you know, they don’t
mind!”
Copyrights
What Maisie Knew from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
