She hung again over the rail; she felt the
summer night; she dropped down into the manners of France. There was
a cafe below the hotel, before which, with little chairs and tables,
people sat on a space enclosed by plants in tubs; and the impression was
enriched by the flash of the white aprons of waiters and the music of a
man and a woman who, from beyond the precinct, sent up the strum of a
guitar and the drawl of a song about "amour." Maisie knew what "amour"
meant too, and wondered if Mrs. Wix did: Mrs. Wix remained within, as
still as a mouse and perhaps not reached by the performance. After
a while, but not till the musicians had ceased and begun to circulate
with a little plate, her pupil came back to her. "IS it a crime?" Maisie
then asked.
Mrs. Wix was as prompt as if she had been crouching in a lair. "Branded
by the Bible."
"Well, he won't commit a crime."
Mrs. Wix looked at her gloomily. "He's committing one now."
"Now?"
"In being with her."
Maisie had it on her tongue's end to return once more: "But now he's
free." She remembered, however, in time that one of the things she had
known for the last entire hour was that this made no difference. After
that, and as if to turn the right way, she was on the point of a blind
dash, a weak reversion to the reminder that it might make a difference,
might diminish the crime for Mrs. Beale; till such a reflexion was in
its order also quashed by the visibility in Mrs. Wix's face of the
collapse produced by her inference from her pupil's manner that after
all her pains her pupil didn't even yet adequately understand.
Pages:
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277