he footing of as much
pleasantness and as much comfort--and I think I have a right to add, to
both of you, of as much faith in ME--as possible."

Oh he was princely indeed: that came out more and more with every word
he said and with the particular way he said it, and Maisie could feel
his monitress stiffen almost with anguish against the increase of his
spell and then hurl herself as a desperate defence from it into the
quite confessed poorness of violence, of iteration. "You're afraid
of her--afraid, afraid, afraid! Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!" Mrs. Wix
wailed it with a high quaver, then broke down into a long shudder of
helplessness and woe. The next minute she had flung herself again on
the lean sofa and had burst into a passion of tears.

Sir Claude stood and looked at her a moment; he shook his head slowly,
altogether tenderly. "I've already admitted it--I'm in mortal terror;
so we'll let that settle the question. I think you had best go to bed,"
he added; "you've had a tremendous day and you must both be tired to
death. I shall not expect you to concern yourselves in the morning
with my movements. There's an early boat on; I shall have cleared out
before you're up; and I shall moreover have dealt directly and most
effectively, I assure you, with the haughty but not quite hopeless Miss
Ash." He turned to his stepdaughter as if at once to take leave of her
and give her a sign of how, through all tension and friction, they were
still united in such a way that she at least needn't worry. "Maisie
boy!"--he opened his arms to her. With her culpable lightness she flew
into them and, while he kissed her, chose the soft method of silence to
satisfy him, the silence that after battles of talk was the best balm
she could offer his wounds. They held each other long enough to reaffirm
intensely their vows; after which they were almost forced apart by Mrs.
Wix's jumping to her feet.

Her jump, either with a quick return or with a final lapse of courage,
was also to supplication almost abject. "I beseech you not to take a
step so miserable and so fatal. I know her but too well, even if you
jeer at me for saying it; little as I've seen her I know her, I know
her. I know what she'll do--I see it as I stand here. Since you're
afraid of her it's the mercy of heaven. Don't, for God's sake, be afraid
to show it, to profit by it and to arrive at the very safety that it
gives you. I'M not afraid of her, I assure you; you must already