the child he kissed her gently and gave her a little pat to make her stand off. The pat was accompanied with a vague sigh, in which his gravity of a moment before came back. "All the same, if you had n't had the fatal gift of beauty—"
'Well, what?" Maisie asked, wondering why he paused. It was the first time she had heard of her beauty.
"Why, we should n't all be thinking so well of each other!"
"He is n't speaking of personal loveliness—you 're not lovely in person, my dear, at all," Mrs. Beale explained. "He's just talking of plain, dull charm of character."
"Her character's the most extraordinary thing in all the world," Sir Claude communicated to Mrs. Beale.
"Oh, I know all about that sort of thing!"—she fairly bridled with the knowledge.
It gave Maisie somehow a sudden sense of responsibility, from which she sought refuge. "Well, you've got it too, 'that sort of thing'—you 've got the fatal gift, you both really have!" she broke out.
"Beauty of character? My dear boy, we have n't a pennyworth!" Sir Claude protested.
"Speak for yourself, sir!" leaped lightly
