What Maisie Knew

for example of the train they had just lost—were after all so slight? Mrs. Wix was right. He was afraid of his weakness—of his weakness.

She couldn't have told you afterwards how they got back to the inn: she could only have told you that even from this point they had not gone straight, but once more had wandered and loitered and, in the course of it, had found themselves on the edge of the quay where—still apparently with half an hour to spare—the boat prepared for Folkestone was drawn up. Here they hovered as they had done at the station; here they exchanged silences again, but only exchanged silences. There were punctual people on the deck, choosing places, taking the best; some of them already contented, all established and shawled, facing to England and attended by the steward, who, confined on such a day to the lighter offices, tucked up the ladies' feet or opened bottles with a pop. They looked down at these things without a word; they even picked out a good place for two that was left in the lee of a lifeboat; and if they lingered rather stupidly, neither deciding to go aboard nor deciding to come away, it was Sir Claude quite as much as she who wouldn't move. It was Sir Claude who cultivated the supreme stillness by which she knew best what he meant. He simply meant that he knew all she herself meant. But there was no pretence of pleasantry now: their faces were grave and tired. When at last they lounged off it was as if his fear, his fear of his weakness, leaned upon her heavily as they followed the harbour. In the hall of the hotel as they passed in she saw a battered old box that she recognised, an ancient receptacle with dangling labels that she knew and a big painted W, lately done over and intensely personal, that seemed to stare at her with a recognition and even with some suspicion of its own. Sir Claude caught it too, and there was agitation for both of them in the sight of this object on the move. Was Mrs. Wix going and was the responsibility of giving her up lifted, at a touch, from her pupil? Her pupil and her pupil's companion, transfixed a moment, held, in the presence of the omen, communication more intense than in the presence either of the Paris train or of the Channel steamer; then, and still without a word, they went straight upstairs. There, however, on the landing, out of sight of the people below, they collapsed so that they had to sink down together for support: they simply seated themselves on the uppermost step while Sir Claude grasped the hand of his stepdaughter with a pressure that at another moment would probably have made her squeal. Their books and papers were all scattered. 'She thinks you've given her up!'

'Then I must see her—I must see her,' Maisie said.

'To bid her good-bye?'

'I must see her—I must see her,' the child only repeated.

They sat a minute longer, Sir Claude, with his tight grip of her hand and looking away from her, looking straight down the staircase to where, round the turn, electric bells rattled and the pleasant sea-draught blew. At last, loosening his grasp, he slowly got up while she did the same. They went together along the lobby, but before they reached the salon he stopped again. 'If I give up Mrs. Beale—?'

'I'll go straight out with you again and not come back till she has gone.'

He seemed to wonder. 'Till Mrs. Beale—?' He had made it sound like a bad joke.

'I mean till Mrs. Wix leaves—in that boat.'

Sir Claude looked almost foolish. 'Is she going in that boat?'

'I suppose so. I won't even bid her good-bye,' Maisie continued. 'I'll stay out till the boat has gone. I'll go up to the old rampart.'

'The old rampart?'

'I'll sit on that old bench where you see the gold Virgin.'

'The gold Virgin?' he vaguely echoed. But it brought his eyes back to her as if after an instant he could see the place and the thing she named—could see her sitting there alone. 'While I break with Mrs. Beale?'

'While you break with Mrs. Beale.'

He gave a long deep smothered sigh. 'I must see her first.'

'You won't do as I do? Go out and wait?'

'Wait?'—once more he appeared at a loss.

'Till they both have gone,' Maisie said.

'Giving us up?'

'Giving us up.'

Oh with what a face for an instant he wondered if that could be! But his wonder the next moment only made him go to the door and, with his hand on the knob, stand as if listening for voices. Maisie listened, but she heard none. All she heard presently was Sir Claude's saying with speculation quite choked off, but so as not to be heard in the salon: 'Mrs. Beale will never go.' On this he pushed open the door and she went in with him. The salon was empty, but as an effect of their entrance the lady he had just mentioned appeared at the door of the bedroom. 'Is she going?' he then demanded.

Mrs. Beale came forward, closing her door behind her. 'I've had the most extraordinary scene with her. She told me yesterday she'd stay.'

'And my arrival has altered it?'

'Oh we took that into account!' Mrs. Beale was flushed, which was never quite becoming to her, and her face visibly testified to the encounter to which she alluded. Evidently, however, she had not been worsted, and she held up her head and smiled and rubbed her hands as if in sudden emulation of the patronne. 'She promised she'd stay even if you should come.'

'Then why has she changed?'

'Because she's a hound. The reason she herself gives is that you've been out too long.'

Sir Claude stared. 'What has that to do with it?'

'You've been out an age,' Mrs. Beale continued; 'I myself couldn't imagine what had become of you. The whole morning,' she exclaimed, 'and luncheon long since over!'

Sir Claude appeared indifferent to that. 'Did Mrs. Wix go down with you?' he only asked.

'Not she; she never budged!'—and Mrs. Beale's flush, to Maisie's vision, deepened. 'She moped there—she