Maggie hesitated, however; she made no direct reply.  “It’s useless hoping,” she presently said.  “She won’t.  But he ought to.”  Her friend’s expression of a moment before, which had been apologised for as vulgar, prolonged its sharpness to her ear—­ that of an electric bell under continued pressure.  Stated so simply, what was it but dreadful, truly, that the feasibility of Charlotte’s “getting at” the man who for so long had loved her should now be in question?  Strangest of all things, doubtless, this care of Maggie’s as to what might make for it or make against it; stranger still her fairly lapsing at moments into a vague calculation of the conceivability, on her own part, with her husband, of some direct sounding of the subject.  Would it be too monstrous, her suddenly breaking out to him as in alarm at the lapse of the weeks:  “Wouldn’t it really seem that you’re bound in honour to do something for her, privately, before they go?” Maggie was capable of weighing the risk of this adventure for her own spirit, capable of sinking to intense little absences, even while conversing, as now, with the person who had most of her confidence, during which she followed up the possibilities.  It was true that Mrs. Assingham could at such times somewhat restore the balance—­by not wholly failing to guess her thought.  Her thought, however, just at present, had more than one face—­had a series that it successively presented.  These were indeed the possibilities involved in the adventure of her concerning herself for the quantity of compensation that Mrs. Verver might still look to.  There was always the possibility that she was, after all, sufficiently to get at him—­there was in fact that of her having again and again done so.  Against this stood nothing but Fanny Assingham’s apparent belief in her privation—­ more mercilessly imposed, or more hopelessly felt, in the actual relation of the parties; over and beyond everything that, from more than three months back, of course, had fostered in the Princess a like conviction.  These assumptions might certainly be baseless—­inasmuch as there were hours and hours of Amerigo’s time that there was no habit, no pretence of his accounting for; inasmuch too as Charlotte, inevitably, had had more than once, to the undisguised knowledge of the pair in Portland Place, been obliged to come up to Eaton Square, whence so many of her personal possessions were in course of removal.  She didn’t come to Portland Place—­didn’t even come to ask for luncheon on two separate occasions when it reached the consciousness of the household there that she was spending the day in London.  Maggie hated, she scorned, to compare hours and appearances, to weigh the idea of whether there hadn’t been moments, during these days, when an assignation, in easy conditions, a snatched interview, in an air the season had so cleared of prying eyes, mightn’t perfectly work.  But the very reason of this was partly that, haunted with the vision of the poor woman