“It’s success.  And even this,” he added as the Principino, appearing alone, deep within, piped across an instant greeting—­ “even this isn’t altogether failure!”

They went in to receive the boy, upon whose introduction to the room by Miss Bogle Charlotte and the Prince got up—­seemingly with an impressiveness that had caused Miss Bogle not to give further effect to her own entrance.  She had retired, but the Principino’s presence, by itself, sufficiently broke the tension—­the subsidence of which, in the great room, ten minutes later, gave to the air something of the quality produced by the cessation of a sustained rattle.  Stillness, when the Prince and Princess returned from attending the visitors to their carriage, might have been said to be not so much restored as created; so that whatever next took place in it was foredoomed to remarkable salience.  That would have been the case even with so natural, though so futile, a movement as Maggie’s going out to the balcony again to follow with her eyes her father’s departure.  The carriage was out of sight—­it had taken her too long solemnly to reascend, and she looked awhile only at the great grey space, on which, as on the room still more, the shadow of dusk had fallen.  Here, at first, her husband had not rejoined her; he had come up with the boy, who, clutching his hand, abounded, as usual, in remarks worthy of the family archives; but the two appeared then to have proceeded to report to Miss Bogle.  It meant something for the Princess that her husband had thus got their son out of the way, not bringing him back to his mother; but everything now, as she vaguely moved about, struck her as meaning so much that the unheard chorus swelled.  Yet this above all—­her just being there as she was and waiting for him to come in, their freedom to be together there always—­was the meaning most disengaged:  she stood in the cool twilight and took in, all about her, where it lurked, her reason for what she had done.  She knew at last really why—­ and how she had been inspired and guided, how she had been persistently able, how, to her soul, all the while, it had been for the sake of this end.  Here it was, then, the moment, the golden fruit that had shone from afar; only, what were these things, in the fact, for the hand and for the lips, when tested, when tasted—­what were they as a reward?  Closer than she had ever been to the measure of her course and the full face of her act, she had an instant of the terror that, when there has been suspense, always precedes, on the part of the creature to be paid, the certification of the amount.  Amerigo knew it, the amount; he still held it, and the delay in his return, making her heart beat too fast to go on, was like a sudden blinding light on a wild speculation.  She had thrown the dice, but his hand was over her cast.