would at least say something to show a recognition that she could be charming.
What he presently said was: "Are you putting up for the night?"
His wife hesitated. "Not here—I've come from Dover."
Over Maisie's head, at this, they still faced each other. "You spend the night there?"
"Yes—I brought some things. I went to the hotel and hastily arranged; then I caught the train that whisked me on here. You see what a day I've had of it."
The statement may surprise, but these were really as obliging if not as lucid words as, into her daughter's ears at least, Ida's lips had ever dropped; and there was a quick desire in the daughter that, for the hour at any rate, they should duly be welcomed as a ground of intercourse. Certainly mamma had a charm which, when turned on, became a large explanation; and the only danger now in an impulse to applaud it would be that of appearing to signalize its rarity. Maisie, however, risked this peril in the geniality of an admission that Ida had indeed had a rush; and she invited Sir Claude to expose himself by agreeing with her that the rush had been even worse than theirs. He
