consented to serve as the deep soil, might have worked up again to the surface, to be thrown back upon her hands.  Yes, it was positive that during one of these minutes the Princess had the vision of her particular alarm.  “It’s her lie, it’s her lie that has mortally disagreed with her; she can keep down no longer her rebellion at it, and she has come to retract it, to disown it and denounce it—­to give me full in my face the truth instead.”  This, for a concentrated instant, Maggie felt her helplessly gasp—­but only to let it bring home the indignity, the pity of her state.  She herself could but tentatively hover, place in view the book she carried, look as little dangerous, look as abjectly mild, as possible; remind herself really of people she had read about in stories of the wild west, people who threw up their hands, on certain occasions, as a sign they weren’t carrying revolvers.  She could almost have smiled at last, troubled as she yet knew herself, to show how richly she was harmless; she held up her volume, which was so weak a weapon, and while she continued, for consideration, to keep her distance, she explained with as quenched a quaver as possible.  “I saw you come out—­saw you from my window, and couldn’t bear to think you should find yourself here without the beginning of your book.  This is the beginning; you’ve got the wrong volume, and I’ve brought you out the right.”

She remained after she had spoken; it was like holding a parley with a possible adversary, and her intense, her exalted little smile asked for formal leave.  “May I come nearer now?” she seemed to say—­as to which, however, the next minute, she saw Charlotte’s reply lose itself in a strange process, a thing of several sharp stages, which she could stand there and trace.  The dread, after a minute, had dropped from her face; though, discernibly enough, she still couldn’t believe in her having, in so strange a fashion, been deliberately made up to.  If she had been made up to, at least, it was with an idea—­the idea that had struck her at first as necessarily dangerous.  That it wasn’t, insistently wasn’t, this shone from Maggie with a force finally not to be resisted; and on that perception, on the immense relief so constituted, everything had by the end of three minutes extraordinarily changed.  Maggie had come out to her, really, because she knew her doomed, doomed to a separation that was like a knife in her heart; and in the very sight of her uncontrollable, her blinded physical quest of a peace not to be grasped, something of Mrs. Assingham’s picture of her as thrown, for a grim future, beyond the great sea and the great continent had at first found fulfilment.  She had got away, in this fashion—­burning behind her, almost, the ships of disguise—­to let her horror of what was before her play up without witnesses; and even after Maggie’s approach had presented an innocent front it was still not to be mistaken that she bristled with the signs of her extremity.