she was about to turn away, had not caught sight of a moving spot, a clear green sunshade in the act of descending a flight of steps.  It passed down from the terrace, receding, at a distance, from sight, and carried, naturally, so as to conceal the head and back of its bearer; but Maggie had quickly recognised the white dress and the particular motion of this adventurer—­had taken in that Charlotte, of all people, had chosen the glare of noon for an exploration of the gardens, and that she could be betaking herself only to some unvisited quarter deep in them, or beyond them, that she had already marked as a superior refuge.  The Princess kept her for a few minutes in sight, watched her long enough to feel her, by the mere betrayal of her pace and direction, driven in a kind of flight, and then understood, for herself, why the act of sitting still had become impossible to either of them.  There came to her, confusedly, some echo of an ancient fable—­some vision of Io goaded by the gadfly or of Ariadne roaming the lone sea-strand.  It brought with it all the sense of her own intention and desire; she too might have been, for the hour, some far-off harassed heroine—­only with a part to play for which she knew, exactly, no inspiring precedent.  She knew but that, all the while—­all the while of her sitting there among the others without her—­she had wanted to go straight to this detached member of the party and make somehow, for her support, the last demonstration.  A pretext was all that was needful, and Maggie after another instant had found one.  She had caught a glimpse, before Mrs. Verver disappeared, of her carrying a book—­made out, half lost in the folds of her white dress, the dark cover of a volume that was to explain her purpose in case of her being met with surprise, and the mate of which, precisely, now lay on Maggie’s table.  The book was an old novel that the Princess had a couple of days before mentioned having brought down from Portland Place in the charming original form of its three volumes.  Charlotte had hailed, with a specious glitter of interest, the opportunity to read it, and our young woman had, thereupon, on the morrow, directed her maid to carry it to Mrs. Verver’s apartments.  She was afterwards to observe that this messenger, unintelligent or inadvertent, had removed but one of the volumes, which happened not to be the first.  Still possessed, accordingly, of the first while Charlotte, going out, fantastically, at such an hour, to cultivate romance in an arbour, was helplessly armed with the second, Maggie prepared on the spot to sally forth with succour.  The right volume, with a parasol, was all she required—­in addition, that is, to the bravery of her general idea.  She passed again through the house, unchallenged, and emerged upon the terrace, which she followed, hugging the shade, with that consciousness of turning the tables on her friend which we have already noted.  But so far as she went, after descending into the