push at last incontestably maternal—straight into the room inherited from Sir Claude. She titivated her little charge with her own brisk hands; then she brought out: "I'm going to divorce your father."
This was so different from anything Maisie had expected that it took some time to reach her mind. She was aware meanwhile that she must look rather wan. "To marry Sir Claude?"
Mrs. Beale rewarded her with a kiss. "It 's sweet to hear you put it so."
This was a tribute, but it left Maisie balancing for an objection. "How can you when he's married?"
"He isn't—practically. He's free."
"Free to marry?"
"Free, first, to divorce his own fiend."
The benefit that these last days she had felt she owed a certain person left Maisie for the moment so ill-prepared for recognizing this label that she hesitated long enough to risk: "Mamma?"
"She is n't your mamma any longer," Mrs. Beale replied. "Sir Claude has paid her money to cease to be." Then as if remembering how little, to the child, a pecuniary transaction must represent: "She lets him
