Amerigo, meanwhile, after all, could clearly make the most of her having enjoined on him to wait—­suggested it by the positive pomp of her dealings with the smashed cup; to wait, that is, till she should pronounce as Mrs. Assingham had promised for her.  This delay, again, certainly tested her presence of mind—­though that strain was not what presently made her speak.  Keep her eyes, for the time, from her husband’s as she might, she soon found herself much more drivingly conscious of the strain on his own wit.  There was even a minute, when her back was turned to him, during which she knew once more the strangeness of her desire to spare him, a strangeness that had already, fifty times, brushed her, in the depth of her trouble, as with the wild wing of some bird of the air who might blindly have swooped for an instant into the shaft of a well, darkening there by his momentary flutter the far-off round of sky.  It was extraordinary, this quality in the taste of her wrong which made her completed sense of it seem rather to soften than to harden and it was the more extraordinary the more she had to recognise it; for what it came to was that seeing herself finally sure, knowing everything, having the fact, in all its abomination, so utterly before her that there was nothing else to add—­what it came to was that, merely by being with him there in silence, she felt, within her, the sudden split between conviction and action.  They had begun to cease, on the spot, surprisingly, to be connected; conviction, that is, budged no inch, only planting its feet the more firmly in the soil—­but action began to hover like some lighter and larger, but easier form, excited by its very power to keep above ground.  It would be free, it would be independent, it would go in—­wouldn’t it?—­for some prodigious and superior adventure of its own.  What would condemn it, so to speak, to the responsibility of freedom—­this glimmered on Maggie even now—­was the possibility, richer with every lapsing moment, that her husband would have, on the whole question, a new need of her, a need which was in fact being born between them in these very seconds.  It struck her truly as so new that he would have felt hitherto none to compare with it at all; would indeed, absolutely, by this circumstance, be really needing her for the first one in their whole connection.  No, he had used her, had even exceedingly enjoyed her, before this; but there had been no precedent for that character of a proved necessity to him which she was rapidly taking on.  The immense advantage of this particular clue, moreover, was that she should have now to arrange, alter, to falsify nothing; should have to be but consistently simple and straight.  She asked herself, with concentration, while her back was still presented, what would be the very ideal of that method; after which, the next instant, it had all come to her and she had turned round upon him for the application.  “Fanny Assingham broke it—­knowing it had a crack and that it would go if she used sufficient force.  She thought, when I had told her, that that would be the best thing to do with it—­thought so from her own point of view.  That hadn’t been at all my idea, but she acted before I understood.  I had, on the contrary,” she explained, “put it here, in full view, exactly that you might see.”