But if she 's so fond of you, why does n't she write to you?"
"Oh, on account of mamma." This was rudimentary, and she was almost surprised at the simplicity of Sir Claude's question.
"I see—that 's quite right," he answered. "She might get at you—there are all sorts of ways; but, of course, there 's Mrs. Wix."
"There 's Mrs. Wix," Maisie lucidly concurred. "Mrs. Wix can't endure her."
Sir Claude seemed interested. "Oh, she can't endure her? Then what does she say about her?"
"Nothing at all, because she knows I should n't like it. Is n't it sweet of her?" the child asked.
"Certainly, rather nice. Mrs. Beale would n't hold her tongue for any such thing as that, would she?"
Maisie remembered how little she had done so; but she desired to protect Mrs. Beale too. The only protection she could think of, however, was the plea: "Oh, at papa's, you know, they don't mind."
At this Sir Claude only smiled. "No; I dare say not. But here we mind, don't we?—we take care what we say. I don't suppose it 's the sort of thing I ought to say,"
