“Well, it’s beautiful and wonderful.  But isn’t it, possibly,” Charlotte asked, “not quite enough to marry me for?”

“Why so, my dear child?  Isn’t a man’s idea usually what he does marry for?”

Charlotte, considering, looked as if this might perhaps be a large question, or at all events something of an extension of one they were immediately concerned with.  “Doesn’t that a good deal depend on the sort of thing it may be?” She suggested that, about marriage, ideas, as he called them, might differ; with which, however, giving no more time to it, she sounded another question.  “Don’t you appear rather to put it to me that I may accept your offer for Maggie’s sake?  Somehow”—­she turned it over—­“I don’t so clearly see her quite so much finding reassurance, or even quite so much needing it.”

“Do you then make nothing at all of her having been so ready to leave us?”

Ah, Charlotte on the contrary made much!  “She was ready to leave us because she had to be.  From the moment the Prince wanted it she could only go with him.”

“Perfectly—­so that, if you see your way, she will be able to ’go with him’ in future as much as she likes.”

Charlotte appeared to examine for a minute, in Maggie’s interest, this privilege—­the result of which was a limited concession.  “You’ve certainly worked it out!”

“Of course I’ve worked it out—­that’s exactly what I have done.  She hadn’t for a long time been so happy about anything as at your being there with me.”

“I was to be with you,” said Charlotte, “for her security.”

“Well,” Adam Verver rang out, “this is her security.  You’ve only, if you can’t see it, to ask her.”

“‘Ask’ her?”—­the girl echoed it in wonder.  “Certainly—­in so many words.  Telling her you don’t believe me.”

Still she debated.  “Do you mean write it to her?”

“Quite so.  Immediately.  To-morrow.”

“Oh, I don’t think I can write it,” said Charlotte Stant.  “When I write to her”—­and she looked amused for so different a shade—­ “it’s about the Principino’s appetite and Dr. Brady’s visits.”

“Very good then—­put it to her face to face.  We’ll go straight to Paris to meet them.”

Charlotte, at this, rose with a movement that was like a small cry; but her unspoken sense lost itself while she stood with her eyes on him—­he keeping his seat as for the help it gave him, a little, to make his appeal go up.  Presently, however, a new sense had come to her, and she covered him, kindly, with the expression of it.  “I do think, you know, you must rather ‘like’ me.”

“Thank you,” said Adam Verver.  “You will put it to her yourself then?”

She had another hesitation.  “We go over, you say, to meet them?”

“As soon as we can get back to Fawns.  And wait there for them, if necessary, till they come.”

“Wait—­a—­at Fawns?”