She had got up with these last words; she stood there before him with that particular suggestion in her aspect to which even the long habit of their life together had not closed his sense, kept sharp, year after year, by the collation of types and signs, the comparison of fine object with fine object, of one degree of finish, of one form of the exquisite with another—­the appearance of some slight, slim draped “antique” of Vatican or Capitoline halls, late and refined, rare as a note and immortal as a link, set in motion by the miraculous infusion of a modern impulse and yet, for all the sudden freedom of folds and footsteps forsaken after centuries by their pedestal, keeping still the quality, the perfect felicity, of the statue; the blurred, absent eyes, the smoothed, elegant, nameless head, the impersonal flit of a creature lost in an alien age and passing as an image in worn relief round and round a precious vase.  She had always had odd moments of striking him, daughter of his very own though she was, as a figure thus simplified, “generalised” in its grace, a figure with which his human connection was fairly interrupted by some vague analogy of turn and attitude, something shyly mythological and nymphlike.  The trick, he was not uncomplacently aware, was mainly of his own mind; it came from his caring for precious vases only less than for precious daughters.  And what was more to the point still, it often operated while he was quite at the same time conscious that Maggie had been described, even in her prettiness, as “prim”—­Mrs. Rance herself had enthusiastically used the word of her; while he remembered that when once she had been told before him, familiarly, that she resembled a nun, she had replied that she was delighted to hear it and would certainly try to; while also, finally, it was present to him that, discreetly heedless, thanks to her long association with nobleness in art, to the leaps and bounds of fashion, she brought her hair down very straight and flat over her temples, in the constant manner of her mother, who had not been a bit mythological.  Nymphs and nuns were certainly separate types, but Mr. Verver, when he really amused himself, let consistency go.  The play of vision was at all events so rooted in him that he could receive impressions of sense even while positively thinking.  He was positively thinking while Maggie stood there, and it led for him to yet another question—­which in its turn led to others still.  “Do you regard the condition as hers then that you spoke of a minute ago?”

“The condition—?”

“Why that of having loved so intensely that she’s, as you say, ’beyond everything’?”

Maggie had scarcely to reflect—­her answer was so prompt.  “Oh no.  She’s beyond nothing.  For she has had nothing.”

“I see.  You must have had things to be them.  It’s a kind of law of perspective.”

Maggie didn’t know about the law, but she continued definite.  “She’s not, for example, beyond help.”