THE PRINCE
fore!" But he had said enough. "Ecco!" he simply smiled.
It was not to be concealed that he worked upon her, but of course she had always liked him. "I should be interested," she presently remarked, "to see some sense you don't possess."
Well, he produced one on the spot. "The moral, dear Mrs. Assingham. I mean always as you others consider it. I've of course something that in our poor dear backward old Rome sufficiently passes for it. But it's no more like yours than the tortuous stone staircase—half-ruined into the bargain!—in some castle of our quattrocento is like the 'lightning elevator' in one of Mr. Verver's fifteen-storey buildings. Your moral sense works by steam—it sends you up like a rocket. Ours is slow and steep and unlighted, with so many of the steps missing that—well, that it's as short in almost any case to turn round and come down again."
"Trusting," Mrs. Assingham smiled, "to get up some other way?"
"Yes—or not to have to get up at all. However," he added, "I told you that at the beginning."
"Machiavelli!" she simply exclaimed.
"You do me too much honour. I wish indeed I had his genius. However, if you really believed I have his perversity you wouldn't say it. But it's all right," he gaily enough concluded; "I shall always have you to come to."
On this, for a little, they sat face to face; after which, without comment, she asked him if he would have more tea. All she would give him, he promptly
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