had done in accepting, in their old golden Rome, Amerigo’s proposal of marriage.  And yet, by her little crouching posture there, that of a timid tigress, she had meant nothing recklessly ultimate, nothing clumsily fundamental; so that she called it names, the invidious, the grotesque attitude, holding it up to her own ridicule, reducing so far as she could the portee of what had followed it.  She had but wanted to get nearer—­nearer to something indeed that she couldn’t, that she wouldn’t, even to herself, describe; and the degree of this achieved nearness was what had been in advance incalculable.  Her actual multiplication of distractions and suppressions, whatever it did for her, failed to prevent her living over again any chosen minute—­for she could choose them, she could fix them—­of the freshness of relation produced by her having administered to her husband the first surprise to which she had ever treated him.  It had been a poor thing, but it had been all her own, and the whole passage was backwardly there, a great picture hung on the wall of her daily life, for her to make what she would of.

It fell, for retrospect, into a succession of moments that were WATCHABLE still; almost in the manner of the different things done during a scene on the stage, some scene so acted as to have left a great impression on the tenant of one of the stalls.  Several of these moments stood out beyond the others, and those she could feel again most, count again like the firm pearls on a string, had belonged more particularly to the lapse of time before dinner—­dinner which had been so late, quite at nine o’clock, that evening, thanks to the final lateness of Amerigo’s own advent.  These were parts of the experience—­though in fact there had been a good many of them—­between which her impression could continue sharply to discriminate.  Before the subsequent passages, much later on, it was to be said, the flame of memory turned to an equalising glow, that of a lamp in some side-chapel in which incense was thick.  The great moment, at any rate, for conscious repossession, was doubtless the first:  the strange little timed silence which she had fully gauged, on the spot, as altogether beyond her own intention, but which—­for just how long? should she ever really know for just how long?—­she could do nothing to break.  She was in the smaller drawing-room, in which she always “sat,” and she had, by calculation, dressed for dinner on finally coming in.  It was a wonder how many things she had calculated in respect to this small incident—­a matter for the importance of which she had so quite indefinite a measure.  He would be late—­he would be very late; that was the one certainty that seemed to look her in the face.  There was still also the possibility that if he drove with Charlotte straight to Eaton Square he might think it best to remain there even on learning she had come away.  She had left no message for him on any such chance; this was another of her small shades of decision, though the effect of it might be to keep him still longer absent.  He might suppose she would already have dined; he might stay, with all he would have to tell, just on purpose to be nice to her father.  She had known him to stretch the point, to these beautiful ends, far beyond that; he had more than once stretched it to the sacrifice of the opportunity of dressing.