THE PRINCE
her. Only acquaintances who, in all sorts of ways, make use of her, and distant relations who are so afraid she'll make use of them that they seldom let her look at them."
Mr. Verver was struck—and, as usual, to some purpose. "If we get her here to improve us don't we too then make use of her?"
It pulled the Princess up, however, but an instant. "We're old, old friends—we do her good too. I should always, even at the worst—speaking for myself—admire her still more than I used her."
"I see. That always does good."
Maggie seemed to consider his way of putting it. "Certainly then—she knows it. She knows, I mean, how great I think her courage and her cleverness. She's not afraid—not of anything; and yet she no more ever takes a liberty with you than if she trembled for her life. And then she's interesting—which plenty of other people with plenty of other merits never are a bit." In which fine flicker of vision the truth widened to the Princess's view. "I myself of course don't take liberties, but then I do always by nature tremble for my life. That's the way I live."
"Oh I say, love!" her father vaguely murmured.
"Yes, I live in terror," she insisted. "I'm a small creeping thing."
"You'll not persuade me that you're not so good as Charlotte Stant," he still placidly enough remarked.
"I may be as good, but I'm not so great—and that's what we're talking about. She has a great im-
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