have needed a more visible disposition to unrest in him to make the account perfectly fit.  Fanny herself limited indeed, she minimised, her office; you didn’t need a jailor, she contended, for a domesticated lamb tied up with pink ribbon.  This was not an animal to be controlled—­it was an animal to be, at the most, educated.  She admitted accordingly that she was educative—­which Maggie was so aware that she herself, inevitably, wasn’t; so it came round to being true that what she was most in charge of was his mere intelligence.  This left, goodness knew, plenty of different calls for Maggie to meet—­in a case in which so much pink ribbon, as it might be symbolically named, was lavished on the creature.  What it all amounted to, at any rate, was that Mrs. Assingham would be keeping him quiet now, while his wife and his father-in-law carried out their own little frugal picnic; quite moreover, doubtless, not much less neededly in respect to the members of the circle that were with them there than in respect to the pair they were missing almost for the first time.  It was present to Maggie that the Prince could bear, when he was with his wife, almost any queerness on the part of people, strange English types, who bored him, beyond convenience, by being so little as he himself was; for this was one of the ways in which a wife was practically sustaining.  But she was as positively aware that she hadn’t yet learned to see him as meeting such exposure in her absence.  How did he move and talk, how above all did he, or how would he, look—­he who, with his so nobly handsome face, could look such wonderful things—­in case of being left alone with some of the subjects of his wonder?  There were subjects for wonder among these very neighbours; only Maggie herself had her own odd way—­which didn’t moreover the least irritate him—­of really liking them in proportion as they could strike her as strange.  It came out in her by heredity, he amused himself with declaring, this love of chinoiseries; but she actually this evening didn’t mind—­he might deal with her Chinese as he could.

Maggie indeed would always have had for such moments, had they oftener occurred, the impression made on her by a word of Mrs. Assingham’s, a word referring precisely to that appetite in Amerigo for the explanatory which we have just found in our path.  It wasn’t that the Princess could be indebted to another person, even to so clever a one as this friend, for seeing anything in her husband that she mightn’t see unaided; but she had ever, hitherto, been of a nature to accept with modest gratitude any better description of a felt truth than her little limits—­ terribly marked, she knew, in the direction of saying the right things—­enabled her to make.  Thus it was, at any rate, that she was able to live more or less in the light of the fact expressed so lucidly by their common comforter—­the fact that the Prince was saving up, for some very mysterious but very fine eventual purpose, all the wisdom, all