Oh there were several of these, and two or three of the worst on the old
city-wall where everything else so made for peace. There was nothing
in the world Maisie more wanted than to be as nice to Mrs. Wix as Sir
Claude had desired; but it was exactly because this fell in with her
inveterate instinct of keeping the peace that the instinct itself
was quickened. From the moment it was quickened, however, it found
other work, and that was how, to begin with, she produced the very
complication she most sought to avert. What she had essentially done,
these days, had been to read the unspoken into the spoken; so that thus,
with accumulations, it had become more definite to her that the unspoken
was, unspeakably, the completeness of the sacrifice of Mrs. Beale. There
were times when every minute that Sir Claude stayed away was like a nail
in Mrs. Beale's coffin. That brought back to Maisie--it was a roundabout
way--the beauty and antiquity of her connexion with the flower of the
Overmores as well as that lady's own grace and charm, her peculiar
prettiness and cleverness and even her peculiar tribulations. A hundred
things hummed at the back of her head, but two of these were simple
enough. Mrs. Beale was by the way, after all, just her stepmother
and her relative. She was just--and partly for that very reason--Sir
Claude's greatest intimate ("lady-intimate" was Maisie's term) so that
what together they were on Mrs. Wix's prescription to give up and break
short off with was for one of them his particular favourite and for the
other her father's wife.
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