Oh, Charlotte’s measure of it was only too full.  “Beatifically.”

“That’s the great thing,” he went on; “so that it doesn’t matter, really, that one doesn’t understand.  Besides, you do—­enough.”

“I understand my husband perhaps,” she after an instant conceded.  “I don’t understand your wife.”

“You’re of the same race, at any rate—­more or less; of the same general tradition and education, of the same moral paste.  There are things you have in common with them.  But I, on my side, as I’ve gone on trying to see if I haven’t some of these things too—­I, on my side, have more and more failed.  There seem at last to be none worth mentioning.  I can’t help seeing it—­I’m decidedly too different.”

“Yet you’re not”—­Charlotte made the important point—­“too different from me.”

“I don’t know—­as we’re not married.  That brings things out.  Perhaps if we were,” he said, “you would find some abyss of divergence.”

“Since it depends on that then,” she smiled, “I’m safe—­as you are anyhow.  Moreover, as one has so often had occasion to feel, and even to remark, they’re very, very simple.  That makes,” she added, “a difficulty for belief; but when once one has taken it in it makes less difficulty for action.  I have at last, for myself, I think, taken it in.  I’m not afraid.”

He wondered a moment.  “Not afraid of what?”

“Well, generally, of some beastly mistake.  Especially of any mistake founded on one’s idea of their difference.  For that idea,” Charlotte developed, “positively makes one so tender.”

“Ah, but rather!”

“Well then, there it is.  I can’t put myself into Maggie’s skin—­I can’t, as I say.  It’s not my fit—­I shouldn’t be able, as I see it, to breathe in it.  But I can feel that I’d do anything—­to shield it from a bruise.  Tender as I am for her too,” she went on, “I think I’m still more so for my husband.  He’s in truth of a sweet simplicity—!”

The Prince turned over a while the sweet simplicity of Mr. Verver.  “Well, I don’t know that I can choose.  At night all cats are grey.  I only see how, for so many reasons, we ought to stand toward them—­and how, to do ourselves justice, we do.  It represents for us a conscious care—­”

“Of every hour, literally,” said Charlotte.  She could rise to the highest measure of the facts.  “And for which we must trust each other—!”

“Oh, as we trust the saints in glory.  Fortunately,” the Prince hastened to add, “we can.”  With which, as for the full assurance and the pledge it involved, their hands instinctively found their hands.  “It’s all too wonderful.”

Firmly and gravely she kept his hand.  “It’s too beautiful.”

And so for a minute they stood together, as strongly held and as closely confronted as any hour of their easier past even had seen them.  They were silent at first, only facing and faced, only grasping and grasped, only meeting and met.  “It’s sacred,” he said at last.