"Nothing would induce me," the young man said to Maisie, "to tell you
what made me think so well of HER." Having divested 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 hadn'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 shouldn't all be thinking so well of each other!"

"He isn't speaking of personal loveliness--you've not THAT vulgar
beauty, 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 stated 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 haven't a pennyworth!" Sir Claude
protested.

"Speak for yourself, sir!" she leaped lightly from Mrs. Beale. "I'm good
and I'm clever. What more do you want? For you, I'll spare your blushes