Some such happily-provoked remarks as these, from Charlotte, at the other house, had been in the air, but we have seen how there was also in the air, for our young woman, as an emanation from the same source, a distilled difference of which the very principle was to keep down objections and retorts.  That impression came back—­it had its hours of doing so; and it may interest us on the ground of its having prompted in Maggie a final reflection, a reflection out of the heart of which a light flashed for her like a great flower grown in a night.  As soon as this light had spread a little it produced in some quarters a surprising distinctness, made her of a sudden ask herself why there should have been even for three days the least obscurity.  The perfection of her success, decidedly, was like some strange shore to which she had been noiselessly ferried and where, with a start, she found herself quaking at the thought that the boat might have put off again and left her.  The word for it, the word that flashed the light, was that they were treating her, that they were proceeding with her—­and, for that matter, with her father—­by a plan that was the exact counterpart of her own.  It was not from her that they took their cue, but—­and this was what in particular made her sit up—­from each other; and with a depth of unanimity, an exact coincidence of inspiration that, when once her attention had begun to fix it, struck her as staring out at her in recovered identities of behaviour, expression and tone.  They had a view of her situation, and of the possible forms her own consciousness of it might take—­a view determined by the change of attitude they had had, ever so subtly, to recognise in her on their return from Matcham.  They had had to read into this small and all-but-suppressed variation a mute comment—­on they didn’t quite know what; and it now arched over the Princess’s head like a vault of bold span that important communication between them on the subject couldn’t have failed of being immediate.  This new perception bristled for her, as we have said, with odd intimations, but questions unanswered played in and out of it as well—­the question, for instance, of why such promptitude of harmony should have been important.  Ah, when she began to recover, piece by piece, the process became lively; she might have been picking small shining diamonds out of the sweepings of her ordered house.  She bent, in this pursuit, over her dust-bin; she challenged to the last grain the refuse of her innocent economy.  Then it was that the dismissed vision of Amerigo, that evening, in arrest at the door of her salottino while her eyes, from her placed chair, took him in—­then it was that this immense little memory gave out its full power.  Since the question was of doors, she had afterwards, she now saw, shut it out; she had responsibly shut in, as we have understood, shut in there with her sentient self, only the fact of his reappearance and the plenitude