might be rather ridiculous—­no visibility of transition showed, no violence of adjustment, in retrospect, emerged.  The Palladian church was always there, but the piazza took care of itself.  The sun stared down in his fulness, the air circulated, and the public not less; the limit stood off, the way round was easy, the east end was as fine, in its fashion, as the west, and there were also side doors for entrance, between the two—­large, monumental, ornamental, in their style—­as for all proper great churches.  By some such process, in fine, had the Prince, for his father-in-law, while remaining solidly a feature, ceased to be, at all ominously, a block.

Mr. Verver, it may further be mentioned, had taken at no moment sufficient alarm to have kept in detail the record of his reassurance; but he would none the less not have been unable, not really have been indisposed, to impart in confidence to the right person his notion of the history of the matter.  The right person—­it is equally distinct—­had not, for this illumination, been wanting, but had been encountered in the form of Fanny Assingham, not for the first time indeed admitted to his counsels, and who would have doubtless at present, in any case, from plenitude of interest and with equal guarantees, repeated his secret.  It all came then, the great clearance, from the one prime fact that the Prince, by good fortune, hadn’t proved angular.  He clung to that description of his daughter’s husband as he often did to terms and phrases, in the human, the social connection, that he had found for himself:  it was his way to have times of using these constantly, as if they just then lighted the world, or his own path in it, for him—­even when for some of his interlocutors they covered less ground.  It was true that with Mrs. Assingham he never felt quite sure of the ground anything covered; she disputed with him so little, agreed with him so much, surrounded him with such systematic consideration, such predetermined tenderness, that it was almost—­which he had once told her in irritation as if she were nursing a sick baby.  He had accused her of not taking him seriously, and she had replied—­as from her it couldn’t frighten him—­that she took him religiously, adoringly.  She had laughed again, as she had laughed before, on his producing for her that good right word about the happy issue of his connection with the Prince—­with an effect the more odd perhaps as she had not contested its value.  She couldn’t of course, however, be, at the best, as much in love with his discovery as he was himself.  He was so much so that he fairly worked it—­to his own comfort; came in fact sometimes near publicly pointing the moral of what might have occurred if friction, so to speak, had occurred.  He pointed it frankly one day to the personage in question, mentioned to the Prince the particular justice he did him, was even explicit as to the danger that, in their remarkable relation, they had thus escaped.  Oh, if he had been angular!—­who could say what might then have happened?  He spoke—­and it was the way he had spoken to Mrs. Assingham too—­as if he grasped the facts, without exception, for which angularity stood.