THE GOLDEN BOWL
"Tired of this life—the one we've been leading. You like it, I know, but I've dreamed another dream." She held up her head now; her lighted eyes more triumphantly rested; she was finding, she was following her way. Maggie, by the same influence, sat in sight of it; there was something she was saving, some quantity of which she herself was judge; and it was for a long moment, even with the sacrifice the Princess had come to make, a good deal like watching her from the solid shore plunge into uncertain, into possibly treacherous depths. "I see something else," she went on; "I've an idea that greatly appeals to me—I've had it for a long time. It has come over me that we're wrong. Our real life isn't here."
Maggie held her breath. "'Ours'—?"
"My husband's and mine. I'm not speaking for you."
"Oh!" said Maggie,, only praying not to be, not even to appear, stupid.
"I'm speaking for ourselves. I'm speaking," Charlotte brought out, "for him."
"I see. For my father."
"For your father. For whom else?" They looked at each other hard now, but Maggie's face took refuge in the intensity of her interest. She wasn't at all events so stupid as to treat her companion's question as requiring an answer; a discretion that her controlled stillness had after an instant justified. "I must risk your thinking me selfish—for of course you know what it involves. Let me admit it—I am selfish. I place my husband first."
314
