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There was an occasion when, on her being particularly indiscreet, Maisie replied to her and precisely about the motive of a disappearance as she, Maisie, had once been replied to by Mrs. Farange: "Find out for yourself!" She mimicked her mother's sharpness, but she was rather ashamed afterwards, though as to whether of the sharpness or of the mimicry was not quite clear.
It required indeed a supplement when he saw that it left the child momentarily blank. "I mean that your mother lets me do what I want so long as I let her do what SHE wants." "So you ARE doing what you want?" Maisie asked. "Rather, Miss Farange!" Miss Farange turned it over. "And she's doing the same?" "Up to the hilt!" Again she considered. "Then, please, what may it be?"
Sir Claude gave a squeeze of the child's arm. "Didn't I tell you she'd have, Miss Farange?" "You're uncommonly afraid to hear it," Ida went on; "but if you think she'll protect you from it you're mightily mistaken." She gave him a moment. "I'll give her the benefit as soon as look at you. Should you like her to know, my dear?"
Beale Farange, for Miss Overmore, was now never anything but "he," and the house was as full as ever of lively gentlemen with whom, under that designation, she chaffingly talked about him. Maisie meanwhile, as a subject of familiar gossip on what was to be done with her, was left so much to herself that she had hours of wistful thought of the large loose discipline of Mrs.
He looked down at her with a kind smile. "No, probably not. I haven't brought you for that." "Then whose house is it?" "It's your father's. They've moved here." She looked about: she had known Mr. Farange in four or five houses, and there was nothing astonishing in this except that it was the nicest place yet. "But I shall see Mrs. Beale?" "It's to see her that I brought you."
The bright creature told her little charge frankly what had happened that she had really been unable to hold out. She had broken her vow to Mrs. Farange; she had struggled for three days and then had come straight to Maisie's papa and told him the simple truth. She adored his daughter; she couldn't give her up; she'd make for her any sacrifice.
Her father enjoyed both her drollery and his own and tried again to get possession of her an effort deprecated by their comrade and leading again to something of a public scuffle. Miss Overmore declared to the child that she had been all the while with good friends; on which Beale Farange went on: "She means good friends of mine, you know tremendous friends of mine.
Farange wouldn't care for it at all, and she ended by confessing since her pupil pushed her that she didn't care for it herself. She was furiously jealous, she said; and that weakness was but a new proof of her disinterested affection. She pronounced Mrs.
Wix looked for a moment hard at Maisie, and then, turning again to this witness, spoke with a trembling voice. "I came to say nothing about him, and you must excuse Mrs. Farange and me if we're not so above all reproach as the companion of his travels." The young woman thus described stared at the apparent breadth of the description she needed a moment to take it in.
"Of course she has, old girl where else could the poor dear be?" cried Beale Farange, to the still greater scandal of their companion, who protested that unless he straightway "took back" his nasty wicked fib it would be, this time, not only him she would leave, but his child too and his house and his tiresome trouble all the impossible things he had succeeded in putting on her.
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