THE PRINCESS
know?" Maggie's silence and Maggie's eyes had in fact arrested the push of the question—which for a decent consistency she couldn't yet quite abandon. "What I should rather say is does he know how much?" She found it still awkward. "How much, I mean, they did. How far"—she touched it up—"they went."
Maggie had waited, but only with a question. "Do you think he does?"
"Know at least something? Oh about him I can't think. He's beyond me," said Fanny Assingham.
"Then do you yourself know?"
"How much—?"
"How much."
"How far—?"
"How far."
Fanny had appeared to wish to make sure, but there was something she remembered—remembered in time and even with a smile. "I've told you before that I know absolutely nothing."
"Well—that's what I know," said the Princess. Her friend again hesitated. "Then nobody knows—? I mean," Mrs. Assingham explained, "how much your father does."
Oh Maggie showed she understood. "Nobody."
"Not—a little—Charlotte?"
"A little?" the Princess echoed. "To know anything would be, for her, to know enough."
"And she doesn't know anything?"
"If she did," Maggie answered, "Amerigo would."
"And that's just it—that he doesn't?"
"That's just it," said the Princess profoundly.
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