The Golden Bowl

rince next spoke. He had been thinking the case over and making up his mind. A handsome, clever, odd girl staying with one was a complication. Mrs. Assingham, so far, was right. But ther

an irony beyond laughter. “You’

eep her for that.

in motion and gesture, in free, vivid, yet altogether happy indications of dress, from the becoming compactness of her hat to the shade of tan in her shoes, of winds and waves and custom-houses, of far countries and long journeys, the knowledge of how and where and the habit, founded on experience, of not being afraid. He was aware, at the same time, that of this combination the “strongminded” note was not, as might have been apprehended, the basis; he was now sufficiently familiar with English-speaking types, he had sounded attentively enough such possibilities, for a quick vision of differences. He had, besides, his own view of this young lady’s strength of mind. It was great, he had ground to believe, but it would never interfere with the play of her extremely personal, her always amusing taste. This last was the thing in her — for she threw it out positively, on the spot, like a light —

here was a shade of tawny autumn leaf in it, for “appreciation”— a colour indescribable and of which he had known no other case, something that gave her at moments the sylvan head of a huntress. He saw the sleeves of her jacket drawn to her wrists, but he again made out the free arms within them to be of the completely rounded, the polished slimness that Florentine sculptors, in the great time, had loved, and of which the apparent firmness is expressed in their old silver and old bronze. He knew her narrow hands, he knew her long fingers and the shape and colour of her finger-nails, he knew her special beauty of movement and line when she turned her back, and the perfect working of all her main attachments, that of some wonderful finished instrument, something intently made for exhibition, for a prize. He knew above all the extr

ad been quite charming. She had deprecated any action taken on behalf of her effects; but her hostess, rebounding from accumulated cushions, evidently saw more in Mrs. Betterman’s non-appearance than could meet the casual eye. What she saw, in short, demanded her intervention, in spite of an earnest “Let ME go!” from the girl, and a prolonged smiling wail over the trouble she was giving. The Prince was quite aware, at this moment, that departure, for himself, was indicated; the question of Miss Stant’s installation didn’t demand his presence; it was a case for one to go away — if one hadn’t a reason for staying. He had a reason, however — of that he was equally aware; and he had not for a good while done anything more conscious and intentional than not, quickl

the woman of the thing that gave her away. She did it, ever, inevitably, infallibly — she couldn’t possibly not do it. It was her nature, it was her life, and the man could always expect it without lifting a finger. This was HIS, the man’s, any man’s, position and strength — that he had necessarily the advantage, that he only had to wait, with a decent patience, to be placed, in spite of himself, it might really be said, in the right. Just so the punctuality of performance on the part of the other creature was her weakness and her deep misfortune — not less, no doubt, than her beauty. It produced for the man that extraordinary mixture of pity and profit in which his relation with her, when he was not a mere brute, mainly consisted; and gave him in fact his most pertinent ground of being always nice to her, nice about her, nice FOR her. She always dressed her act up, of course,

ds told him; and she would act accordingly. But what could he do but just let her see that he would make anything, everything, for her, as honourably easy as possible? Even if she should throw herself into his arms he would make that easy — easy, that is, to overlook, to ignore, not to remember, and not, by the same token, either, to regret. This was not what in fact happened, though it was also not at a single touch, but by the finest gradations, that his tension subsided. “It’s too delightful to be back!” she said at last; and it was all sh

s. She was a charming young woman who had met him before, but she was also a charming young woman with a life of her own. She would take it high — up, up, up, ever so high. Well then, he would do the same; no height woul

d for her. I wanted to see her happy — and it doesn

ppiness of young, good, generous creatures. It rather frightens one. But the B

dearest of the dear. But I nee

still much to learn about her.” To which he subjoi

at hour. One has seen often enough, with girls, what it is. But that,

e dawn of the sentiment inspired by himself. She had not, to his knowledge, invited the object of it to their wedding, had not thought of proposing to her, for a matter of a couple of hours, an arduous and expensive journey. But she had kept her connected and informed, from week to week, in spite of preparations and absorptions. “Oh, I’ve been writing to Charlotte — I wish you knew her better:” he could still hear, from recent weeks, this record of the fact, just as he could still be conscious, not otherwise than queerly, of the gratuitous element in Maggie’s wish, which he had failed as yet to indicate to her. Older and perhaps more intelligent, at any rate, why shouldn’t Charlotte respond — and be quite FREE to respond — to such fidelities with something more than mere formal good manners? The relations of women with each other were of the strangest, it

d made no display of it, quite as if English, between them, his English so matching with hers, were their inevitable medium. He had perceived all by accident — by hearing her talk before him to somebody else that they had an alternative as good; an alternative in fact as much better as the amusement for him was greater in watching her for the slips that never came. Her account of the mystery didn’t suffice: her recall of her birth in Florence and Florentine childhood; her parents, from the great country, but themselves already of a corrupt generation, demoralised, falsified, polyglot well before her, with the Tuscan balia who was her first remembrance; the servants of the villa, the dear contadini of the poder, the little girls and the other peasants of the next podere, all the rather shabby but still ever so pretty human furniture of her early time, including the good sisters of the poor convent of the Tuscan hills, the convent shabbier than almost anything else,

least matter, over there, whether one likes it or not — that is to

ng then to me, is it?

n because y

’ve wanted immensely to go.” She

which there was something in her face — as he imagin

must go. And of course you must stay”— Charl

he laughed. “You staye

them — on a great scale. It’s the country for interests,” said Cha

were still on their feet. “

led. “They take up little

tionable taste. The lead she had given him made the difference, and he felt it as really a lift on finding an honest and natural word rise, by its license, to his lips. Nothing

for these seconds, he feared for what he

, kind, clever,

n the balance — then she

o recognise it. No one would have me.” Then she seemed to show as sorry for his having to hear of her anything so disconcerting. She pitied his feeling about i

ee why MY existence — even reduced as much as you like to being merely mine — should be so impossible. There are things, of sort

able to

, even affections; affections in fact quite particularly; fixed, that is, on one’s friends. I’m extremely fond of Mag

laugh. “You might

is it?” she asked,

were indeed on an excellent basis; so he went on again, as if to show frankly his sense of its firmness. “I venture therefore to repeat my hope that you’ll

” she simply said; but at that moment their friend was with them again. It was undeniable that, as she came in, Mrs. Assingham looked, with a certain smiling sharpness, from one of

s really safe enough for almost any joke. “It’s only,” he explained to their hostess, “because of what Miss Stant has been telling me. Don’t we want to keep up her courage?” If the joke was broa

t she made the best of it. “Well then,” she replied to the yo

ch things before.” With which, before Mrs. Assingham could meet the appeal, she had addressed h

vulgar omen we’re neglecting. On Saturday, please, at the O

includ

hed. “You’ll make the t

u’re going in for ‘omens.’ Sh

d number — we’ll have in some old woman. The

essed himself again of his hat and approached her to take leave. But he had anot

o wonder a little

eeing you early. That, I

come earl

, “she’ll send for you.

can go, for a penny, can’t I?” she as

ince while Mrs. Assingha

e penny. She shall get there,” th

else. “There’s a great favour, Prince, that I want to ask of you. I

oung man again soo

ly almost for that I came back. It was im

anxiety. “What is it

anion. “That’s what the Prince, if he’

singham asked, “he

“But I want him, if he kindly will, to go with me to look. I want him to judge with me

little with the rest that, directly, for him, it wasn’t the note of safety; it preserved this character, at the best, but by being the note of publicity. Quickly, quickly, however, the note of publicity struck him as better than any other. In anot

nd about to be, or whatever, that, after observing to Charlotte that, should she come to Portland Place in the morning, he would make a point of being there to see her and so, easily, arrange with her