o had no
alternative to suggest. But she made another appeal. "If I come here
you'll come to see me?"

"I won't lose sight of you."

"But how often will you come?" As he hung fire she pressed him. "Often
and often?"

Still he faltered. "My dear old woman--" he began. Then he paused again,
going on the next moment with a change of tone. "You're too funny! Yes
then," he said; "often and often."

"All right!" Maisie jumped out. Mrs. Beale was at home, but not in the
drawing-room, and when the butler had gone for her the child suddenly
broke out: "But when I'm here what will Mrs. Wix do?"

"Ah you should have thought of that sooner!" said her companion with the
first faint note of asperity she had ever heard him sound.

XIV

Mrs Beale fairly swooped upon her and the effect of the whole hour was
to show the child how much, how quite formidably indeed, after all, she
was loved. This was the more the case as her stepmother, so changed--in
the very manner of her mother--that she really struck her as a new
acquaintance, somehow recalled more familiarity than Maisie could feel.
A rich strong expressive affection in short pounced upon her in the
shape of a handsomer, ampler, older Mrs. Beale. It was like making a
fine friend, and they hadn't been a minute together before she felt
elated at the way she had met the choice imposed on her in the cab.
There was a whole future in the combination of Mrs. Beale's beauty and
Mrs. Beale's hug. She seemed to Maisie charming to behold, and also to
have no connexion at all with anybody who had once mended underclothing
and had meals in the nursery. The child knew one of her father's wives
was a woman of fashion, but she had always dimly made a distinction, not
applying that epithet without reserve to the other. Mrs. Beale had since
their separation acquired a conspicuous right to it, and Maisie's first
flush of response to her present delight coloured all her splendour with
meanings that this time were sweet. She had told Sir Claude she was
afraid of the lady in the Regent's Park; but she had confidence enough
to break on the spot, into the frankest appreciation. "Why, aren't you
beautiful? Isn't she beautiful, Sir Claude, ISN'T she?"

"The handsomest woman in London, simply," Sir Claude gallantly replied.
"Just as sure as you're the best little girl!"

Well, the handsomest woman in London gave herself up, with tender
lustrous looks and every demonstration of fondness, to a