and of the charm, the sinister charm, of their having to hold their breath to watch her; a topic the momentous midnight discussion at which we have been present was so far from having exhausted.  It came up, irrepressibly, at all private hours; they had planted it there between them, and it grew, from day to day, in a manner to make their sense of responsibility almost yield to their sense of fascination.  Mrs. Assingham declared at such moments that in the interest of this admirable young thing—­to whom, she also declared, she had quite “come over”—­she was ready to pass with all the world else, even with the Prince himself, the object, inconsequently, as well, of her continued, her explicitly shameless appreciation, for a vulgar, indelicate, pestilential woman, showing her true character in an abandoned old age.  The Colonel’s confessed attention had been enlisted, we have seen, as never yet, under pressure from his wife, by any guaranteed imbroglio; but this, she could assure him she perfectly knew, was not a bit because he was sorry for her, or touched by what she had let herself in for, but because, when once they had been opened, he couldn’t keep his eyes from resting complacently, resting almost intelligently, on the Princess.  If he was in love with her now, however, so much the better; it would help them both not to wince at what they would have to do for her.  Mrs. Assingham had come back to that, whenever he groaned or grunted; she had at no beguiled moment—­ since Maggie’s little march was positively beguiling—­let him lose sight of the grim necessity awaiting them.  “We shall have, as I’ve again and again told you, to lie for her—­to lie till we’re black in the face.”

“To lie ‘for’ her?” The Colonel often, at these hours, as from a vague vision of old chivalry in a new form, wandered into apparent lapses from lucidity.

“To lie to her, up and down, and in and out—­it comes to the same thing.  It will consist just as much of lying to the others too:  to the Prince about one’s belief in him; to Charlotte about one’s belief in her; to Mr. Verver, dear sweet man, about one’s belief in everyone.  So we’ve work cut out—­with the biggest lie, on top of all, being that we like to be there for such a purpose.  We hate it unspeakably—­I’m more ready to be a coward before it, to let the whole thing, to let everyone, selfishly and pusillanimously slide, than before any social duty, any felt human call, that has ever forced me to be decent.  I speak at least for myself.  For you,” she had added, “as I’ve given you so perfect an opportunity to fall in love with Maggie, you’ll doubtless find your account in being so much nearer to her.”

“And what do you make,” the Colonel could, at this, always imperturbably enough ask, “of the account you yourself will find in being so much nearer to the Prince; of your confirmed, if not exasperated, infatuation with whom—­to say nothing of my weak good-nature about it—­you give such a pretty picture?”