“old-fashioned” look that empty London streets take on in waning afternoons of the summer’s end, she felt once more how impossible such a passage would have been to them, how it would have torn them to pieces, if they had so much as suffered its suppressed relations to peep out of their eyes.  This danger would doubtless indeed have been more to be reckoned with if the instinct of each—­she could certainly at least answer for her own—­had not so successfully acted to trump up other apparent connexions for it, connexions as to which they could pretend to be frank.

“You mustn’t stay on here, you know,” Adam Verver said as a result of his unobstructed outlook.  “Fawns is all there for you, of course—­to the end of my tenure.  But Fawns so dismantled,” he added with mild ruefulness, “Fawns with half its contents, and half its best things, removed, won’t seem to you, I’m afraid, particularly lively.”

“No,” Maggie answered, “we should miss its best things.  Its best things, my dear, have certainly been removed.  To be back there,” she went on, “to be back there—!” And she paused for the force of her idea.

“Oh, to be back there without anything good—!” But she didn’t hesitate now; she brought her idea forth.  “To be back there without Charlotte is more than I think would do.”  And as she smiled at him with it, so she saw him the next instant take it—­ take it in a way that helped her smile to pass all for an allusion to what she didn’t and couldn’t say.  This quantity was too clear—­that she couldn’t at such an hour be pretending to name to him what it was, as he would have said, “going to be,” at Fawns or anywhere else, to want for him.  That was now—­and in a manner exaltedly, sublimely—­out of their compass and their question; so that what was she doing, while they waited for the Principino, while they left the others together and their tension just sensibly threatened, what was she doing but just offer a bold but substantial substitute?  Nothing was stranger moreover, under the action of Charlotte’s presence, than the fact of a felt sincerity in her words.  She felt her sincerity absolutely sound—­ she gave it for all it might mean.  “Because Charlotte, dear, you know,” she said, “is incomparable.”  It took thirty seconds, but she was to know when these were over that she had pronounced one of the happiest words of her life.  They had turned from the view of the street; they leaned together against the balcony rail, with the room largely in sight from where they stood, but with the Prince and Mrs. Verver out of range.  Nothing he could try, she immediately saw, was to keep his eyes from lighting; not even his taking out his cigarette-case and saying before he said anything else:  “May I smoke?” She met it, for encouragement, with her “My dear!” again, and then, while he struck his match, she had just another minute to be nervous—­a minute that she made use of, however, not in the least to falter, but to reiterate with a high ring, a ring that might, for all she cared, reach the pair inside:  “Father, father—­Charlotte’s great!”