If Mrs. Verver meanwhile, then, had struck her as determined in a certain direction by the last felicity into which that night had flowered, our young woman was yet not to fail of appreciating the truth that she had not been put at ease, after all, with absolute permanence.  Maggie had seen her, unmistakably, desire to rise to the occasion and be magnificent—­seen her decide that the right way for this would be to prove that the reassurance she had extorted there, under the high, cool lustre of the saloon, a twinkle of crystal and silver, had not only poured oil upon the troubled waters of their question, but had fairly drenched their whole intercourse with that lubricant.  She had exceeded the limit of discretion in this insistence on her capacity to repay in proportion a service she acknowledged as handsome.  “Why handsome?” Maggie would have been free to ask; since if she had been veracious the service assuredly would not have been huge.  It would in that case have come up vividly, and for each of them alike, that the truth, on the Princess’s lips, presented no difficulty.  If the latter’s mood, in fact, could have turned itself at all to private gaiety it might have failed to resist the diversion of seeing so clever a creature so beguiled.  Charlotte’s theory of a generous manner was manifestly to express that her stepdaughter’s word, wiping out, as she might have said, everything, had restored them to the serenity of a relation without a cloud.  It had been, in short, in this light, ideally conclusive, so that no ghost of anything it referred to could ever walk again.  What was the ecstasy of that, however, but in itself a trifle compromising?—­as truly, within the week, Maggie had occasion to suspect her friend of beginning, and rather abruptly, to remember.  Convinced as she was of the example already given her by her husband, and in relation to which her profession of trust in his mistress had been an act of conformity exquisitely calculated, her imagination yet sought in the hidden play of his influence the explanation of any change of surface, any difference of expression or intention.  There had been, through life, as we know, few quarters in which the Princess’s fancy could let itself loose; but it shook off restraint when it plunged into the figured void of the detail of that relation.  This was a realm it could people with images—­again and again with fresh ones; they swarmed there like the strange combinations that lurked in the woods at twilight; they loomed into the definite and faded into the vague, their main present sign for her being, however, that they were always, that they were duskily, agitated.  Her earlier vision of a state of bliss made insecure by the very intensity of the bliss—­this had dropped from her; she had ceased to see, as she lost herself, the pair of operatic, of high Wagnerian lovers (she found, deep within her, these comparisons) interlocked in their wood of enchantment, a green glade as romantic as one’s dream of an old German forest.