What at last appeared to have happened, however, was that the divided parties, coming back at the same moment, had met outside and then drifted together, from empty room to room, yet not in mere aimless quest of the pair of companions they had left at home.  The quest had carried them to the door of the billiard-room, and their appearance, as it opened to admit them, determined for Adam Verver, in the oddest way in the world, a new and sharp perception.  It was really remarkable:  this perception expanded, on the spot, as a flower, one of the strangest, might, at a breath, have suddenly opened.  The breath, for that matter, was more than anything else, the look in his daughter’s eyes—­the look with which he saw her take in exactly what had occurred in her absence:  Mrs. Rance’s pursuit of him to this remote locality, the spirit and the very form, perfectly characteristic, of his acceptance of the complication—­the seal set, in short, unmistakably, on one of Maggie’s anxieties.  The anxiety, it was true, would have been, even though not imparted, separately shared; for Fanny Assingham’s face was, by the same stroke, not at all thickly veiled for him, and a queer light, of a colour quite to match, fairly glittered in the four fine eyes of the Miss Lutches.  Each of these persons—­counting out, that is, the Prince and the Colonel, who didn’t care, and who didn’t even see that the others did—­knew something, or had at any rate had her idea; the idea, precisely, that this was what Mrs. Rance, artfully biding her time, would do.  The special shade of apprehension on the part of the Miss Lutches might indeed have suggested the vision of an energy supremely asserted.  It was droll, in truth, if one came to that, the position of the Miss Lutches:  they had themselves brought, they had guilelessly introduced Mrs. Rance, strong in the fact of Mr. Rance’s having been literally beheld of them; and it was now for them, positively, as if their handful of flowers—­since Mrs. Rance was a handful!—­had been but the vehicle of a dangerous snake.  Mr. Verver fairly felt in the air the Miss Lutches’ imputation—­in the intensity of which, really, his own propriety might have been involved.

That, none the less, was but a flicker; what made the real difference, as I have hinted, was his mute passage with Maggie.  His daughter’s anxiety alone had depths, and it opened out for him the wider that it was altogether new.  When, in their common past, when till this moment, had she shown a fear, however dumbly, for his individual life?  They had had fears together, just as they had had joys, but all of hers, at least, had been for what equally concerned them.  Here of a sudden was a question that concerned him alone, and the soundless explosion of it somehow marked a date.  He was on her mind, he was even in a manner on her hands—­as a distinct thing, that is, from being, where he had always been, merely deep in her heart and in her life; too deep down, as it were, to be disengaged, contrasted