THE PRINCESS
"Or even," her friend too superficially concurred, "that your father might!"
As to this, at all events, Maggie discriminated. "No, that wouldn't have prevented them; for they knew his first care would be not to make me do so. As it is," Maggie added, "that has had to become his last."
Fanny Assingham took it in deeper—for what it immediately made her give out louder. "He's splendid then." She sounded it almost aggressively; it was what she was reduced to—she had positively to place it.
"Ah that as much as you please!"
Maggie said this and left it, but the tone of it had the next moment determined in her friend a fresh reaction. "You think, both of you, so abysmally and yet so quietly. But it's what will have saved you."
"Oh," Maggie returned, "it's what—from the moment they discovered we could think at all—will have saved them. For they're the ones who are saved," she went on. "We're the ones who are lost."
"Lost—?"
"Lost to each other—father and I.'" And then as her friend appeared to demur, "Oh yes," Maggie quite lucidly declared, "lost to each other really much more than Amerigo and Charlotte are; since for them it's just, it's right, it's deserved, while for us it's only sad and strange and not caused by our fault. But I don't know," she went on, "why I talk about myself, for it's on father it really comes. I let him go," said Maggie.
"You let him, but you don't make him."
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