prompt:
Chapter: It must not be supposed that her ladyship's intermissions were not
qualified by demonstrations of another order--triumphal entries and
breathless pauses during which she seemed to take of everything in the
room, from the state of the ceiling to that of her daughter's boot-toes,
a survey that was rich in intentions. Sometimes she sat down and
sometimes she surged about, but her attitude wore equally in either
case the grand air of the practical. She found so much to deplore that
she left a great deal to expect, and bristled so with calculation that
she seemed to scatter remedies and pledges. Her visits were as good as
an outfit; her manner, as Mrs. Wix once said, as good as a pair of
curtains; but she was a person addicted to extremes--sometimes barely
speaking to her child and sometimes pressing this tender shoot to a
bosom cut, as Mrs. Wix had also observed, remarkably low. She was always
in a fearful hurry, and the lower the bosom was cut the more it was to
be gathered she was wanted elsewhere. She usually broke in alone, but
sometimes Sir Claude was with her, and during all the earlier period
there was nothing on which these appearances had had so delightful a
bearing as on the way her ladyship was, as Mrs. Wix expressed it, under
the spell. "But ISN'T she under it!" Maisie used in thoughtful but
familiar reference to exclaim after Sir Claude had swept mamma away in
peals of natural laughter. Not even in the old days of the convulsed
ladies had she heard mamma laugh so freely as in these moments of
conjugal surrender, to the gaiety of which even a little girl could see
she had at last a right--a little girl whose thoughtfulness was now all
happy selfish meditation on good omens and future fun.

Unaccompanied, in subsequent hours, and with an effect of changing
to meet a change, Ida took a tone superficially disconcerting and
abrupt--the tone of having, at an immense cost, made over everything to
Sir Claude and wishing others to know that if everything wasn't right it
was because Sir Claude was so dreadfully vague. "He has made from the
first such a row about you," she said on one occasion to Maisie, "that
I've told him to do for you himself and try how he likes it--see?
I've washed my hands of you; I've made you over to him; and if you're
discontented it's on him, please, you'll come down. So don't haul poor
ME up--I assure you I've worries enough." One of these, visibly, was
that the spell rejoiced in by the schoolroom fire was already in danger
of breaking; another was that she was finally forced to make no secret
of her husband's unfitness for real responsibilities. The day came
indeed when her breathless auditors learnt from her in bewilderment that
what ailed him was that he was, alas, simply not serious. Maisie wept
on Mrs. Wix's bosom after hearing that Sir Claude was a butterfly;
considering moreover that her governess but half-patched it up in coming
out at various moments the next few days with the opinion that it was
proper to his "station" to be careless and free. That had been proper to
every one's station that she had yet encountered save poor Mrs. Wix's
own, and the particular merit of Sir Claude had seemed precisely that he
was different from every one. She talked with him, however, as time went
on, very freely about her mother; being with him, in this relation,
wholly without the fear that had kept her silent before her father--the
fear of bearing tales and making bad things worse. He appeared to accept
the idea that he had taken her over and made her, as he said, his
particular lark; he quite agreed also that he was an awful fraud and an
idle beast and a sorry dunce. And he never said a word to her against
her mother--he only remained dumb and discouraged in the face of her
ladyship's own overtopping earnestness. There were occasions when he
even spoke as if he had wrenched his little charge from the arms of a
parent who had fought for her tooth and nail.

This was the very moral of a scene that flashed into vividness one day
when the four happened to meet without company in the drawing-room and
Maisie found herself clutched to her mother's breast and passionately
sobbed and shrieked over, made the subject of a demonstration evidently
sequent to some sharp passage just enacted. The connexion required that
while she almost cradled the child in her arms Ida should speak of her
as hideously, as fatally estranged, and should rail at Sir Claude as the
cruel author of the outrage. "He has taken you FROM me," she cried; "he
has set you AGAINST me, and you've been won away and your horrid little
mind has been poisoned! You've gone over to him, you've given yourself
up to side against me and hate me. You never open your mouth to me--you
know you don't; and you chatter to him like a dozen magpies. Don't lie
about it--I hear you all over the place. You hang about him in a way
that's barely decent--he can do what he likes with you. Well then, let
him, to his heart's content: he has been in such a hurry to take you
that we'll see if it suits him to keep you. I'm very good to break my
heart about it when you've no more feeling for me than a clammy little
fish!" She suddenly thrust the child away and, as a disgusted admission
of failure, sent her flying across the room into the arms of Mrs. Wix,
whom at this moment and even in the whirl of her transit Maisie saw,
very red, exchange a quick queer look with Sir Claude.

The impression of the look remained with her, confronting her with such
a critical little view of her mother's explosion that she felt the less
ashamed of herself for incurring the reproach with which she had been
cast off. Her father had once called her a heartless little beast,
and now, though decidedly scared, she was as stiff and cold as if the
description had been just. She was not even frightened enough to cry,
which would have been a tribute to her mother's wrongs: she was only,
more than anything else, curious about the opinion mutely expressed by
their companions. Taking the earliest opportunity to question Mrs. Wix
on this subject she elicited the remarkable reply: "Well, my dear, it's
her ladyship's game, and we must just hold on like grim death."

Maisie could interpret at her leisure these ominous words. Her
reflexions indeed at this moment thickened apace, and one of them made
her sure that her governess had conversations, private, earnest and not
infrequent, with her denounced stepfather. She perceived in the light
of a second episode that something beyond her knowledge had taken place
in the house. The things beyond her knowledge--numerous enough in
truth--had not hitherto, she believed, been the things that had been
nearest to her: she had even had in the past a small smug conviction
that in the domestic labyrinth she always kept the clue. This time too,
however, she at last found out--with the discreet aid, it had to be
confessed, of Mrs. Wix. Sir Claude's own assistance was abruptly taken
from her, for his comment on her ladyship's game was to start on the
spot, quite alone, for Paris, evidently because he wished to show
a spirit when accused of bad behaviour. He might be fond of his
stepdaughter, Maisie felt, without wishing her to be after all thrust on
him in such a way; his absence therefore, it was clear, was a protest
against the thrusting. It was while this absence lasted that our young
lady finally discovered what had happened in the house to be that her
mother was no longer in love.

The limit of a passion for Sir Claude had certainly been reached, she
judged, some time before the day on which her ladyship burst suddenly
into the schoolroom to introduce Mr. Perriam, who, as she announced
from the doorway to Maisie, wouldn't believe his ears that one had a
great hoyden of a daughter. Mr. Perriam was short and massive--Mrs.
Wix remarked afterwards that he was "too fat for the pace"; and it
would have been difficult to say of him whether his head were more
bald or his black moustache more bushy. He seemed also to have
moustaches over his eyes, which, however, by no means prevented these
polished little globes from rolling round the room as if they had been
billiard-balls impelled by Ida's celebrated stroke. Mr. Perriam wore
on the hand that pulled his moustache a diamond of dazzling lustre, in
consequence of which and of his general weight and mystery our young
lady observed on his departure that if he had only had a turban he
would have been quite her idea of a heathen Turk.

"He's quite my idea," Mrs. Wix replied, "of a heathen Jew."

"Well, I mean," said Maisie, "of a person who comes from the East."

"That's where he MUST come from," her governess opined--"he comes from
the City." In a moment she added as if she knew all about him. "He's one
of those people who have lately broken out. He'll be immensely rich."

"On the death of his papa?" the child interestedly enquired.

"Dear no--nothing hereditary. I mean he has made a mass of money."

"How much, do you think?" Maisie demanded.

Mrs. Wix reflected and sketched it. "Oh many millions."

"A hundred?"

Mrs. Wix was not sure of the number, but there were enough of them to
have seemed to warm up for the time the penury of the schoolroom--to
linger there as an afterglow of the hot heavy light Mr. Perriam sensibly
shed. This was also, no doubt, on his part, an effect of that enjoyment
of life with which, among her elders, Maisie had been in contact from
her earliest years--the sign of happy maturity, the old familiar note of
overflowing cheer. "How d'ye do, ma'am? How d'ye do, little miss?"--he
laughed and nodded at the gaping figures. "She has brought me up for a
peep--it's true I wouldn't take you on trust. She's always talking about
you, but she'd never produce you; so to-day I challenged her on the
spot. Well, you ain't a myth, my dear--I back down on that," the visitor
went on to Maisie; "nor you either, miss, though you might be, to be
sure!"

"I bored him with you, darling--I bore every one," Ida said, "and to
prove that you ARE a sweet thing, as well as a fearfully old one, I told
him he could judge for himself. So now he sees that you're a dreadful
bouncing business and that your poor old Mummy's at least sixty!"--and
her ladyship smiled at Mr. Perriam with the charm that her daughter had
heard imputed to her at papa's by the merry gentlemen who had so often
wished to get from him what they called a "rise." Her manner at that
instant gave the child a glimpse more vivid than any yet enjoyed of the
attraction that papa, in remarkable language, always denied she could
put forth.

Mr. Perriam, however, clearly recognised it in the humour with which he
met her. "I never said you ain't wonderful--did I ever say it, hey?" and
he appealed with pleasant confidence to the testimony of the schoolroom,
about which itself also he evidently felt something might be expected of
him. "So this is their little place, hey? Charming, charming, charming!"
he repeated as he vaguely looked round. The interrupted students clung
together as if they had been personally exposed; but Ida relieved their
embarrassment by a hunch of her high shoulders. This time the smile she
addressed to Mr. Perriam had a beauty of sudden sadness. "What on earth
is a poor woman to do?"

The visitor's grimace grew more marked as he continued to look, and
the conscious little schoolroom felt still more like a cage at a
menagerie. "Charming, charming, charming!" Mr. Perriam insisted; but
the parenthesis closed with a prompt click. "There you are!" said her
ladyship. "By-bye!" she sharply added. The next minute they were on the
stairs, and Mrs. Wix and her companion, at the open door and looking
mutely at each other, were reached by the sound of the large social
current that carried them back to their life.

It was singular perhaps after this that Maisie never put a question
about Mr. Perriam, and it was still more singular that by the end of a
week she knew all she didn't ask. What she most particularly knew--and
the information came to her, unsought, straight from Mrs. Wix--was that
Sir Claude wouldn't at all care for the visits of a millionaire who was
in and out of the upper rooms. How little he would care was proved by
the fact that under the sense of them Mrs. Wix's discretion broke down
altogether; she was capable of a transfer of allegiance, capable, at the
altar of propriety, of a desperate sacrifice of her ladyship. As against
Mrs. Beale, she more than once intimated, she had been willing to do
the best for her, but as against Sir Claude she could do nothing for
her at all. It was extraordinary the number of things that, still
without a question, Maisie knew by the time her stepfather came back
from Paris--came bringing her a splendid apparatus for painting in
water-colours and bringing Mrs. Wix, by a lapse of memory that would
have been droll if it had not been a trifle disconcerting, a second and
even a more elegant umbrella. He had forgotten all about the first,
with which, buried in as many wrappers as a mummy of the Pharaohs, she
wouldn't for the world have done anything so profane as use it. Maisie
knew above all that though she was now, by what she called an informal
understanding, on Sir Claude's "side," she had yet not uttered a word
to him about Mr. Perriam. That gentleman became therefore a kind of
flourishing public secret, out of the depths of which governess and
pupil looked at each other portentously from the time their friend was
restored to them. He was restored in great abundance, and it was marked
that, though he appeared to have felt the need to take a stand against
the risk of being too roughly saddled with the offspring of others, he
at this period exposed himself more than ever before to the presumption
of having created expectations.

If it had become now, for that matter, a question of sides, there was at
least a certain amount of evidence as to where they all were. Maisie of
course, in such a delicate position, was on nobody's; but Sir Claude had
all the air of being on hers. If therefore Mrs. Wix was on Sir Claude's,
her ladyship on Mr. Perriam's and Mr. Perriam presumably on her
ladyship's, this left only Mrs. Beale and Mr. Farange to account for.
Mrs. Beale clearly was, like Sir Claude, on Maisie's, and papa, it was
to be supposed, on Mrs. Beale's. Here indeed was a slight ambiguity,
as papa's being on Mrs. Beale's didn't somehow seem to place him quite
on his daughter's. It sounded, as this young lady thought it over,
very much like puss-in-the-corner, and she could only wonder if the
distribution of parties would lead to a rushing to and fro and a
changing of places. She was in the presence, she felt, of restless
change: wasn't it restless enough that her mother and her stepfather
should already be on different sides? That was the great thing that had
domestically happened. Mrs. Wix, besides, had turned another face: she
had never been exactly gay, but her gravity was now an attitude as
public as a posted placard. She seemed to sit in her new dress and brood
over her lost delicacy, which had become almost as doleful a memory as
that of poor Clara Matilda. "It IS hard for him," she often said to her
companion; and it was surprising how competent on this point Maisie
was conscious of being to agree with her. Hard as it was, however, Sir
Claude had never shown to greater advantage than in the gallant generous
sociable way he carried it off: a way that drew from Mrs. Wix a hundred
expressions of relief at his not having suffered it to embitter him.
It threw him more and more at last into the schoolroom, where he
had plainly begun to recognise that if he was to have the credit of
perverting the innocent child he might also at least have the amusement.
He never came into the place without telling its occupants that they
were the nicest people in the house--a remark which always led them to
say to each other "Mr. Perriam!" as loud as ever compressed lips and
enlarged eyes could make them articulate. He caused Maisie to remember
what she had said to Mrs. Beale about his having the nature of a good
nurse, and, rather more than she intended before Mrs. Wix, to bring the
whole thing out by once remarking to him that none of her good nurses
had smoked quite so much in the nursery. This had no more effect than
it was meant to on his cigarettes: he was always smoking, but always
declaring that it was death to him not to lead a domestic life.

He led one after all in the schoolroom, and there were hours of late
evening, when she had gone to bed, that Maisie knew he sat there talking
with Mrs. Wix of how to meet his difficulties. His consideration for
this unfortunate woman even in the midst of them continued to show him
as the perfect gentleman and lifted the subject of his courtesy into an
upper air of beatitude in which her very pride had the hush of anxiety.
"He leans on me--he leans on me!" she only announced from time to time;
and she was more surprised than amused when, later on, she accidentally
found she had given her pupil the impression of a support literally
supplied by her person. This glimpse of a misconception led her to be
explicit--to put before the child, with an air of mourning indeed for
such a stoop to the common, that what they talked about in the small
hours, as they said, was the question of his taking right hold of life.
The life she wanted him to take right hold of was the public: "she"
being, I hasten to add, in this connexion, not the mistress of his fate,
but only Mrs. Wix herself. She had phrases about him that were full of
easy understanding, yet full of morality. "He's a wonderful nature, but
he can't live like the lilies. He's all right, you know, but he must
have a high interest." She had more than once remarked that his affairs
were sadly involved, but that they must get him--Maisie and she
together apparently--into Parliament. The child took it from her with a
flutter of importance that Parliament was his natural sphere, and she
was the less prepared to recognise a hindrance as she had never heard
of any affairs whatever that were not involved. She had in the old
days once been told by Mrs. Beale that her very own were, and with the
refreshment of knowing that she HAD affairs the information hadn't in
the least overwhelmed her. It was true and perhaps a little alarming
that she had never heard of any such matters since then. Full of
charm at any rate was the prospect of some day getting Sir Claude in;
especially after Mrs. Wix, as the fruit of more midnight colloquies,
once went so far as to observe that she really believed it was all
that was wanted to save him. This critic, with these words, struck her
disciple as cropping up, after the manner of mamma when mamma talked,
quite in a new place. The child stared as at the jump of a kangaroo.
"Save him from what?"

Mrs. Wix debated, then covered a still greater distance. "Why just from
awful misery."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Ida and Sir Claude's relationship seems to have completely deteriorated by this chapter. Whereas Ida used to go out often with Sir Claude and laugh naturally at his charming humor, she is now constantly rushing out alone in low-cut dresses. Ida coldly tells Maisie that she has "washed her hands" of her and given her care over to Sir Claude. However, on another day Ida uses Maisie in an argument with Sir Claude, clutching the little girl and weeping over how Sir Claude has stolen her child. Maisie is not all that disturbed by her mother's outburst, but she is upset that Sir Claude goes away for a while after this as if in reaction to having the responsibility for Maisie thrust on him in this way. One day, Ida brings a new man, perhaps a new suitor, to visit Maisie. The man is named Mr. Perriam, and Maisie describes him as "short and massive". Mrs. Wix explains to Maisie that Mr. Perriam must be very rich. Ida tells Maisie that she's told Mr. Perriam all about her daughter, as she tells everyone, and as the man looks around the room Maisie feels the schoolroom becoming like a cage. After he leaves, Maisie never brings him up again. Eventually, Sir Claude comes back home, bringing presents for Maisie and Mrs. Wix as always, though Mrs. Wix gets an umbrella after already having received an umbrella from Sir Claude recently. Maisie mulls over which of her guardians is on each other's "side". Sir Claude begins to visit Maisie and Mrs. Wix more, being more present in Maisie's lessons and talking at length with Mrs. Wix about his troubled marriage. Mrs. Wix tells Maisie that they must try to get Sir Claude into Parliament, as this will save him from his miserable life


prompt:
Chapter: She had not at the moment explained her ominous speech, but the light of
remarkable events soon enabled her companion to read it. It may indeed
be said that these days brought on a high quickening of Maisie's direct
perceptions, of her sense of freedom to make out things for herself.
This was helped by an emotion intrinsically far from sweet--the increase
of the alarm that had most haunted her meditations. She had no need to
be told, as on the morrow of the revelation of Sir Claude's danger she
was told by Mrs. Wix, that her mother wanted more and more to know why
the devil her father didn't send for her: she had too long expected
mamma's curiosity on this point to express itself sharply. Maisie could
meet such pressure so far as meeting it was to be in a position to
reply, in words directly inspired, that papa would be hanged before he'd
again be saddled with her. She therefore recognised the hour that in
troubled glimpses she had long foreseen, the hour when--the phrase for
it came back to her from Mrs. Beale--with two fathers, two mothers and
two homes, six protections in all, she shouldn't know "wherever" to
go. Such apprehension as she felt on this score was not diminished
by the fact that Mrs. Wix herself was suddenly white with terror: a
circumstance leading Maisie to the further knowledge that this lady
was still more scared on her own behalf than on that of her pupil. A
governess who had only one frock was not likely to have either two
fathers or two mothers: accordingly if even with these resources Maisie
was to be in the streets, where in the name of all that was dreadful
was poor Mrs. Wix to be? She had had, it appeared, a tremendous brush
with Ida, which had begun and ended with the request that she would be
pleased on the spot to "bundle." It had come suddenly but completely,
this signal of which she had gone in fear. The companions confessed to
each other the dread each had hidden the worst of, but Mrs. Wix was
better off than Maisie in having a plan of defence. She declined indeed
to communicate it till it was quite mature; but meanwhile, she hastened
to declare, her feet were firm in the schoolroom. They could only be
loosened by force: she would "leave" for the police perhaps, but she
wouldn't leave for mere outrage. That would be to play her ladyship's
game, and it would take another turn of the screw to make her desert her
darling. Her ladyship had come down with extraordinary violence: it had
been one of many symptoms of a situation strained--"between them all,"
as Mrs. Wix said, "but especially between the two"--to the point of God
only knew what.

Her description of the crisis made the child blanch. "Between which
two?--papa and mamma?"

"Dear no. I mean between your mother and HIM."

Maisie, in this, recognised an opportunity to be really deep.
"'Him'?--Mr. Perriam?"

She fairly brought a blush to the scared face. "Well, my dear, I must
say what you DON'T know ain't worth mentioning. That it won't go on for
ever with Mr. Perriam--since I MUST meet you--you can suppose? But I
meant dear Sir Claude."

Maisie stood corrected rather than abashed. "I see. But it's about Mr.
Perriam he's angry?"

Mrs. Wix waited. "He says he's not."

"Not angry? He has told you so?"

Mrs. Wix looked at her hard. "Not about HIM!"

"Then about some one else?"

Mrs. Wix looked at her harder. "About some one else."

"Lord Eric?" the child promptly brought forth.

At this, of a sudden, her governess was more agitated. "Oh why, little
unfortunate, should we discuss their dreadful names?"--and she threw
herself for the millionth time on Maisie's neck. It took her pupil but
a moment to feel that she quivered with insecurity, and, the contact
of her terror aiding, the pair in another instant were sobbing in each
other's arms. Then it was that, completely relaxed, demoralised as she
had never been, Mrs. Wix suffered her wound to bleed and her resentment
to gush. Her great bitterness was that Ida had called her false,
denounced her hypocrisy and duplicity, reviled her spying and tattling,
her lying and grovelling to Sir Claude. "Me, ME!" the poor woman wailed,
"who've seen what I've seen and gone through everything only to cover
her up and ease her off and smooth her down? If I've been an 'ipocrite
it's the other way round: I've pretended, to him and to her, to myself
and to you and to every one, NOT to see! It serves me right to have held
my tongue before such horrors!"

What horrors they were her companion forbore too closely to enquire,
showing even signs not a few of an ability to take them for granted.
That put the couple more than ever, in this troubled sea, in the same
boat, so that with the consciousness of ideas on the part of her fellow
mariner Maisie could sit close and wait. Sir Claude on the morrow came
in to tea, and then the ideas were produced. It was extraordinary how
the child's presence drew out their full strength. The principal one was
startling, but Maisie appreciated the courage with which her governess
handled it. It simply consisted of the proposal that whenever and
wherever they should seek refuge Sir Claude should consent to share
their asylum. On his protesting with all the warmth in nature against
this note of secession she asked what else in the world was left to them
if her ladyship should stop supplies.

"Supplies be hanged, my dear woman!" said their delightful friend.
"Leave supplies to me--I'll take care of supplies."

Mrs. Wix rose to it. "Well, it's exactly because I knew you'd be so glad
to do so that I put the question before you. There's a way to look after
us better than any other. The way's just to come along with us."

It hung before Maisie, Mrs. Wix's way, like a glittering picture, and
she clasped her hands in ecstasy. "Come along, come along, come along!"

Sir Claude looked from his stepdaughter back to her governess. "Do you
mean leave this house and take up my abode with you?"

"It will be the right thing--if you feel as you've told me you feel."
Mrs. Wix, sustained and uplifted, was now as clear as a bell.

Sir Claude had the air of trying to recall what he had told her; then
the light broke that was always breaking to make his face more pleasant.
"It's your happy thought that I shall take a house for you?"

"For the wretched homeless child. Any roof--over OUR heads--will do for
us; but of course for you it will have to be something really nice."

Sir Claude's eyes reverted to Maisie, rather hard, as she thought; and
there was a shade in his very smile that seemed to show her--though she
also felt it didn't show Mrs. Wix--that the accommodation prescribed
must loom to him pretty large. The next moment, however, he laughed
gaily enough. "My dear lady, you exaggerate tremendously MY poor little
needs." Mrs. Wix had once mentioned to her young friend that when Sir
Claude called her his dear lady he could do anything with her; and
Maisie felt a certain anxiety to see what he would do now. Well, he only
addressed her a remark of which the child herself was aware of feeling
the force. "Your plan appeals to me immensely; but of course--don't you
see--I shall have to consider the position I put myself in by leaving my
wife."

"You'll also have to remember," Mrs. Wix replied, "that if you don't
look out your wife won't give you time to consider. Her ladyship will
leave YOU."

"Ah my good friend, I do look out!" the young man returned while Maisie
helped herself afresh to bread and butter. "Of course if that happens I
shall have somehow to turn round; but I hope with all my heart it won't.
I beg your pardon," he continued to his stepdaughter, "for appearing to
discuss that sort of possibility under your sharp little nose. But the
fact is I FORGET half the time that Ida's your sainted mother."

"So do I!" said Maisie, her mouth full of bread and butter and to put
him the more in the right.

Her protectress, at this, was upon her again. "The little desolate
precious pet!" For the rest of the conversation she was enclosed in Mrs.
Wix's arms, and as they sat there interlocked Sir Claude, before them
with his tea-cup, looked down at them in deepening thought. Shrink
together as they might they couldn't help, Maisie felt, being a very
large lumpish image of what Mrs. Wix required of his slim fineness.
She knew moreover that this lady didn't make it better by adding in a
moment: "Of course we shouldn't dream of a whole house. Any sort of
little lodging, however humble, would be only too blest."

"But it would have to be something that would hold us all," said Sir
Claude.

"Oh yes," Mrs. Wix concurred; "the whole point's our being together.
While you're waiting, before you act, for her ladyship to take some
step, our position here will come to an impossible pass. You don't
know what I went through with her for you yesterday--and for our poor
darling; but it's not a thing I can promise you often to face again. She
cast me out in horrible language--she has instructed the servants not to
wait on me."

"Oh the poor servants are all right!" Sir Claude eagerly cried.

"They're certainly better than their mistress. It's too dreadful that I
should sit here and say of your wife, Sir Claude, and of Maisie's own
mother, that she's lower than a domestic; but my being betrayed into
such remarks is just a reason the more for our getting away. I shall
stay till I'm taken by the shoulders, but that may happen any day. What
also may perfectly happen, you must permit me to repeat, is that she'll
go off to get rid of us."

"Oh if she'll only do that!" Sir Claude laughed. "That would be the very
making of us!"

"Don't say it--don't say it!" Mrs. Wix pleaded. "Don't speak of anything
so fatal. You know what I mean. We must all cling to the right. You
mustn't be bad."

Sir Claude set down his tea-cup; he had become more grave and he
pensively wiped his moustache. "Won't all the world say I'm awful if I
leave the house before--before she has bolted? They'll say it was my
doing so that made her bolt."

Maisie could grasp the force of this reasoning, but it offered no check
to Mrs. Wix. "Why need you mind that--if you've done it for so high a
motive? Think of the beauty of it," the good lady pressed.

"Of bolting with YOU?" Sir Claude ejaculated.

She faintly smiled--she even faintly coloured. "So far from doing you
harm it will do you the highest good. Sir Claude, if you'll listen to
me, it will save you."

"Save me from what?"

Maisie, at this question, waited with renewed suspense for an answer
that would bring the thing to some finer point than their companion
had brought it to before. But there was on the contrary only more
mystification in Mrs. Wix's reply. "Ah from you know what!"

"Do you mean from some other woman!"

"Yes--from a real bad one."

Sir Claude at least, the child could see, was not mystified; so little
indeed that a smile of intelligence broke afresh in his eyes. He turned
them in vague discomfort to Maisie, and then something in the way she
met them caused him to chuck her playfully under the chin. It was not
till after this that he good-naturedly met Mrs. Wix. "You think me much
worse than I am."

"If that were true," she returned, "I wouldn't appeal to you. I do, Sir
Claude, in the name of all that's good in you--and oh so earnestly! We
can help each other. What you'll do for our young friend here I needn't
say. That isn't even what I want to speak of now. What I want to speak
of is what you'll GET--don't you see?--from such an opportunity to take
hold. Take hold of US--take hold of HER. Make her your duty--make her
your life: she'll repay you a thousand-fold!"

It was to Mrs. Wix, during this appeal, that Maisie's contemplation
transferred itself: partly because, though her heart was in her throat
for trepidation, her delicacy deterred her from appearing herself to
press the question; partly from the coercion of seeing Mrs. Wix come out
as Mrs. Wix had never come before--not even on the day of her call at
Mrs. Beale's with the news of mamma's marriage. On that day Mrs. Beale
had surpassed her in dignity, but nobody could have surpassed her now.
There was in fact at this moment a fascination for her pupil in the hint
she seemed to give that she had still more of that surprise behind. So
the sharpened sense of spectatorship was the child's main support, the
long habit, from the first, of seeing herself in discussion and finding
in the fury of it--she had had a glimpse of the game of football--a sort
of compensation for the doom of a peculiar passivity. It gave her often
an odd air of being present at her history in as separate a manner as if
she could only get at experience by flattening her nose against a pane
of glass. Such she felt to be the application of her nose while she
waited for the effect of Mrs. Wix's eloquence. Sir Claude, however,
didn't keep her long in a position so ungraceful: he sat down and opened
his arms to her as he had done the day he came for her at her father's,
and while he held her there, looking at her kindly, but as if their
companion had brought the blood a good deal to his face, he said:

"Dear Mrs. Wix is magnificent, but she's rather too grand about it.
I mean the situation isn't after all quite so desperate or quite so
simple. But I give you my word before her, and I give it to her before
you, that I'll never, never, forsake you. Do you hear that, old fellow,
and do you take it in? I'll stick to you through everything."

Maisie did take it in--took it with a long tremor of all her little
being; and then as, to emphasise it, he drew her closer she buried her
head on his shoulder and cried without sound and without pain. While she
was so engaged she became aware that his own breast was agitated, and
gathered from it with rapture that his tears were as silently flowing.
Presently she heard a loud sob from Mrs. Wix--Mrs. Wix was the only one
who made a noise.

She was to have made, for some time, none other but this, though
within a few days, in conversation with her pupil, she described her
intercourse with Ida as little better than the state of being battered.
There was as yet nevertheless no attempt to eject her by force, and she
recognised that Sir Claude, taking such a stand as never before, had
intervened with passion and with success. As Maisie remembered--and
remembered wholly without disdain--that he had told her he was afraid of
her ladyship, the little girl took this act of resolution as a proof of
what, in the spirit of the engagement sealed by all their tears, he was
really prepared to do. Mrs. Wix spoke to her of the pecuniary sacrifice
by which she herself purchased the scant security she enjoyed and which,
if it was a defence against the hand of violence, yet left her exposed
to incredible rudeness. Didn't her ladyship find every hour of the
day some artful means to humiliate and trample upon her? There was a
quarter's salary owing her--a great name, even Maisie could suspect,
for a small matter; she should never see it as long as she lived, but
keeping quiet about it put her ladyship, thank heaven, a little in one's
power. Now that he was doing so much else she could never have the
grossness to apply for it to Sir Claude. He had sent home for schoolroom
consumption a huge frosted cake, a wonderful delectable mountain with
geological strata of jam, which might, with economy, see them through
many days of their siege; but it was none the less known to Mrs. Wix
that his affairs were more and more involved, and her fellow partaker
looked back tenderly, in the light of these involutions, at the
expression of face with which he had greeted the proposal that he should
set up another establishment. Maisie felt that if their maintenance
should hang by a thread they must still demean themselves with the
highest delicacy. What he was doing was simply acting without delay, so
far as his embarrassments permitted, on the inspiration of his elder
friend. There was at this season a wonderful month of May--as soft as a
drop of the wind in a gale that had kept one awake--when he took out his
stepdaughter with a fresh alacrity and they rambled the great town in
search, as Mrs. Wix called it, of combined amusement and instruction.

They rode on the top of 'buses; they visited outlying parks; they went
to cricket-matches where Maisie fell asleep; they tried a hundred places
for the best one to have tea. This was his direct way of rising to Mrs.
Wix's grand lesson--of making his little accepted charge his duty and
his life. They dropped, under incontrollable impulses, into shops that
they agreed were too big, to look at things that they agreed were too
small, and it was during these hours that Mrs. Wix, alone at home, but
a subject of regretful reference as they pulled off their gloves for
refreshment, subsequently described herself as least sheltered from the
blows her ladyship had achieved such ingenuity in dealing. She again
and again repeated that she wouldn't so much have minded having her
"attainments" held up to scorn and her knowledge of every subject
denied, hadn't she been branded as "low" in character and tone. There
was by this time no pretence on the part of any one of denying it to be
fortunate that her ladyship habitually left London every Saturday and
was more and more disposed to a return late in the week. It was almost
equally public that she regarded as a preposterous "pose," and indeed as
a direct insult to herself, her husband's attitude of staying behind to
look after a child for whom the most elaborate provision had been made.
If there was a type Ida despised, Sir Claude communicated to Maisie, it
was the man who pottered about town of a Sunday; and he also mentioned
how often she had declared to him that if he had a grain of spirit
he would be ashamed to accept a menial position about Mr. Farange's
daughter. It was her ladyship's contention that he was in craven fear
of his predecessor--otherwise he would recognise it as an obligation of
plain decency to protect his wife against the outrage of that person's
barefaced attempt to swindle her. The swindle was that Mr. Farange
put upon her the whole intolerable burden; "and even when I pay for
you myself," Sir Claude averred to his young friend, "she accuses me
the more of truckling and grovelling." It was Mrs. Wix's conviction,
they both knew, arrived at on independent grounds, that Ida's weekly
excursions were feelers for a more considerable absence. If she came
back later each week the week would be sure to arrive when she wouldn't
come back at all. This appearance had of course much to do with Mrs.
Wix's actual valour. Could they but hold out long enough the snug little
home with Sir Claude would find itself informally established.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Thinking of how Ida has said Maisie's father would rather be dead than have responsibility of her, Maisie thinks to herself that she has "two fathers, two mothers and two homes, six protections in all" and yet she doesn't "know 'wherever' to go". Ida and Sir Claude's relationship continues to worsen, and Ida has seemingly begun another affair with a man named Lord Eric. While Maisie, Mrs. Wix, and Sir Claude are spending time together one day, Mrs. Wix has the sudden idea that "the right thing" would be for the three of them go off to live together. Mrs. Wix threatens that this could happen anyway as a result of Ida leaving Sir Claude. Sir Claude says that people would talk badly if he leaves her rather than her leaving him. Mrs. Wix continues to press Sir Claude, saying that doing this would save him and that making Maisie his "duty" would "repay a thousandfold". Sir Claude eventually ends the conversation by saying that Mrs. Wix is being too dramatic but promising never to forsake them. After this conversation, nothing changes. Maisie becomes aware that Mrs. Wix's salary is not being paid, but Mrs. Wix is too polite to ask Sir Claude for it to be taken care of. He does have them sent a large cake and starts to take Maisie out more to parks, sports games, restaurants, shops, and the like. Ida, for her part, stays away from the house more and more, often for most of the week, as if practicing for "a more considerable absence"


prompt:
Chapter: This might moreover have been taken to be the sense of a remark made by
her stepfather as--one rainy day when the streets were all splash and
two umbrellas unsociable and the wanderers had sought shelter in the
National Gallery--Maisie sat beside him staring rather sightlessly at a
roomful of pictures which he had mystified her much by speaking of with
a bored sigh as a "silly superstition." They represented, with patches
of gold and cataracts of purple, with stiff saints and angular angels,
with ugly Madonnas and uglier babies, strange prayers and prostrations;
so that she at first took his words for a protest against devotional
idolatry--all the more that he had of late often come with her and
with Mrs. Wix to morning church, a place of worship of Mrs. Wix's own
choosing, where there was nothing of that sort; no haloes on heads,
but only, during long sermons, beguiling backs of bonnets, and where,
as her governess always afterwards observed, he gave the most earnest
attention. It presently appeared, however, that his reference was merely
to the affectation of admiring such ridiculous works--an admonition that
she received from him as submissively as she received everything. What
turn it gave to their talk needn't here be recorded: the transition to
the colourless schoolroom and lonely Mrs. Wix was doubtless an effect of
relaxed interest in what was before them. Maisie expressed in her own
way the truth that she never went home nowadays without expecting to
find the temple of her studies empty and the poor priestess cast out.
This conveyed a full appreciation of her peril, and it was in rejoinder
that Sir Claude uttered, acknowledging the source of that peril, the
reassurance at which I have glanced. "Don't be afraid, my dear: I've
squared her." It required indeed a supplement when he saw that it left
the child momentarily blank. "I mean that your mother lets me do what I
want so long as I let her do what SHE wants."

"So you ARE doing what you want?" Maisie asked.

"Rather, Miss Farange!"

Miss Farange turned it over. "And she's doing the same?"

"Up to the hilt!"

Again she considered. "Then, please, what may it be?"

"I wouldn't tell you for the whole world."

She gazed at a gaunt Madonna; after which she broke into a slow smile.
"Well, I don't care, so long as you do let her."

"Oh you monster!"--and Sir Claude's gay vehemence brought him to his
feet.

Another day, in another place--a place in Baker Street where at a hungry
hour she had sat down with him to tea and buns--he brought out a question
disconnected from previous talk. "I say, you know, what do you suppose
your father WOULD do?"

Maisie hadn't long to cast about or to question his pleasant eyes. "If
you were really to go with us? He'd make a great complaint."

He seemed amused at the term she employed. "Oh I shouldn't mind a
'complaint'!"

"He'd talk to every one about it," said Maisie.

"Well, I shouldn't mind that either."

"Of course not," the child hastened to respond. "You've told me you're
not afraid of him."

"The question is are you?" said Sir Claude.

Maisie candidly considered; then she spoke resolutely. "No, not of
papa."

"But of somebody else?"

"Certainly, of lots of people."

"Of your mother first and foremost of course."

"Dear, yes; more of mamma than of--than of--"

"Than of what?" Sir Claude asked as she hesitated for a comparison.

She thought over all objects of dread. "Than of a wild elephant!" she at
last declared. "And you are too," she reminded him as he laughed.

"Oh yes, I am too."

Again she meditated. "Why then did you marry her?"

"Just because I WAS afraid."

"Even when she loved you?"

"That made her the more alarming."

For Maisie herself, though her companion seemed to find it droll, this
opened up depths of gravity. "More alarming than she is now?"

"Well, in a different way. Fear, unfortunately, is a very big thing, and
there's a great variety of kinds."

She took this in with complete intelligence. "Then I think I've got them
all."

"You?" her friend cried. "Nonsense! You're thoroughly 'game.'"

"I'm awfully afraid of Mrs. Beale," Maisie objected.

He raised his smooth brows. "That charming woman?"

"Well," she answered, "you can't understand it because you're not in the
same state."

She had been going on with a luminous "But" when, across the table, he
laid his hand on her arm. "I CAN understand it," he confessed. "I AM in
the same state."

"Oh but she likes you so!" Maisie promptly pleaded.

Sir Claude literally coloured. "That has something to do with it."

Maisie wondered again. "Being liked with being afraid?"

"Yes, when it amounts to adoration."

"Then why aren't you afraid of ME?"

"Because with you it amounts to that?" He had kept his hand on her arm.
"Well, what prevents is simply that you're the gentlest spirit on earth.
Besides--" he pursued; but he came to a pause.

"Besides--?"

"I SHOULD be in fear if you were older--there! See--you already make me
talk nonsense," the young man added. "The question's about your father.
Is he likewise afraid of Mrs. Beale?"

"I think not. And yet he loves her," Maisie mused.

"Oh no--he doesn't; not a bit!" After which, as his companion stared,
Sir Claude apparently felt that he must make this oddity fit with her
recollections. "There's nothing of that sort NOW."

But Maisie only stared the more. "They've changed?"

"Like your mother and me."

She wondered how he knew. "Then you've seen Mrs. Beale again?"

He demurred. "Oh no. She has written to me," he presently subjoined.
"SHE'S not afraid of your father either. No one at all is--really."
Then he went on while Maisie's little mind, with its filial spring
too relaxed from of old for a pang at this want of parental majesty,
speculated on the vague relation between Mrs. Beale's courage and the
question, for Mrs. Wix and herself, of a neat lodging with their friend.
"She wouldn't care a bit if Mr. Farange should make a row."

"Do you mean about you and me and Mrs. Wix? Why should she care? It
wouldn't hurt HER."

Sir Claude, with his legs out and his hand diving into his
trousers-pocket, threw back his head with a laugh just perceptibly
tempered, as she thought, by a sigh. "My dear stepchild, you're
delightful! Look here, we must pay. You've had five buns?"

"How CAN you?" Maisie demanded, crimson under the eye of the young woman
who had stepped to their board. "I've had three."

Shortly after this Mrs. Wix looked so ill that it was to be feared her
ladyship had treated her to some unexampled passage. Maisie asked if
anything worse than usual had occurred; whereupon the poor woman brought
out with infinite gloom: "He has been seeing Mrs. Beale."

"Sir Claude?" The child remembered what he had said. "Oh no--not SEEING
her!"

"I beg your pardon. I absolutely know it." Mrs. Wix was as positive as
she was dismal.

Maisie nevertheless ventured to challenge her. "And how, please, do you
know it?"

She faltered a moment. "From herself. I've been to see her."

Then on Maisie's visible surprise: "I went yesterday while you were out
with him. He has seen her repeatedly."

It was not wholly clear to Maisie why Mrs. Wix should be prostrate at
this discovery; but her general consciousness of the way things could be
both perpetrated and resented always eased off for her the strain of the
particular mystery. "There may be some mistake. He says he hasn't."

Mrs. Wix turned paler, as if this were a still deeper ground for alarm.
"He says so?--he denies that he has seen her?"

"He told me so three days ago. Perhaps she's mistaken," Maisie
suggested.

"Do you mean perhaps she lies? She lies whenever it suits her, I'm very
sure. But I know when people lie--and that's what I've loved in you,
that YOU never do. Mrs. Beale didn't yesterday at any rate. He HAS seen
her."

Maisie was silent a little. "He says not," she then repeated.
"Perhaps--perhaps--" Once more she paused.

"Do you mean perhaps HE lies?"

"Gracious goodness, no!" Maisie shouted.

Mrs. Wix's bitterness, however, again overflowed. "He does, he does,"
she cried, "and it's that that's just the worst of it! They'll take
you, they'll take you, and what in the world will then become of me?"
She threw herself afresh upon her pupil and wept over her with the
inevitable effect of causing the child's own tears to flow. But Maisie
couldn't have told you if she had been crying at the image of their
separation or at that of Sir Claude's untruth. As regards this deviation
it was agreed between them that they were not in a position to bring it
home to him. Mrs. Wix was in dread of doing anything to make him, as
she said, "worse"; and Maisie was sufficiently initiated to be able to
reflect that in speaking to her as he had done he had only wished to be
tender of Mrs. Beale. It fell in with all her inclinations to think of
him as tender, and she forbore to let him know that the two ladies had,
as SHE would never do, betrayed him.

She had not long to keep her secret, for the next day, when she went
out with him, he suddenly said in reference to some errand he had first
proposed: "No, we won't do that--we'll do something else." On this, a
few steps from the door, he stopped a hansom and helped her in; then
following her he gave the driver over the top an address that she lost.
When he was seated beside her she asked him where they were going; to
which he replied "My dear child, you'll see." She saw while she watched
and wondered that they took the direction of the Regent's Park; but
she didn't know why he should make a mystery of that, and it was not
till they passed under a pretty arch and drew up at a white house
in a terrace from which the view, she thought, must be lovely that,
mystified, she clutched him and broke out: "I shall see papa?"

He looked down at her with a kind smile. "No, probably not. I haven't
brought you for that."

"Then whose house is it?"

"It's your father's. They've moved here."

She looked about: she had known Mr. Farange in four or five houses, and
there was nothing astonishing in this except that it was the nicest
place yet. "But I shall see Mrs. Beale?"

"It's to see her that I brought you."

She stared, very white, and, with her hand on his arm, though they had
stopped, kept him sitting in the cab. "To leave me, do you mean?"

He could scarce bring it out. "It's not for me to say if you CAN stay.
We must look into it."

"But if I do I shall see papa?"

"Oh some time or other, no doubt." Then Sir Claude went on: "Have you
really so very great a dread of that?"

Maisie glanced away over the apron of the cab--gazed a minute at the
green expanse of the Regent's Park and, at this moment colouring to the
roots of her hair, felt the full, hot rush of an emotion more mature
than any she had yet known. It consisted of an odd unexpected shame at
placing in an inferior light, to so perfect a gentleman and so charming
a person as Sir Claude, so very near a relative as Mr. Farange. She
remembered, however, her friend's telling her that no one was seriously
afraid of her father, and she turned round with a small toss of her
head. "Oh I dare say I can manage him!"

Sir Claude smiled, but she noted that the violence with which she had
just changed colour had brought into his own face a slight compunctious
and embarrassed flush. It was as if he had caught his first glimpse of
her sense of responsibility. Neither of them made a movement to get out,
and after an instant he said to her: "Look here, if you say so we won't
after all go in."

"Ah but I want to see Mrs. Beale!" the child gently wailed.

"But what if she does decide to take you? Then, you know, you'll have to
remain."

Maisie turned it over. "Straight on--and give you up?"

"Well--I don't quite know about giving me up."

"I mean as I gave up Mrs. Beale when I last went to mamma's. I couldn't
do without you here for anything like so long a time as that." It struck
her as a hundred years since she had seen Mrs. Beale, who was on the
other side of the door they were so near and whom she yet had not taken
the jump to clasp in her arms.

"Oh I dare say you'll see more of me than you've seen of Mrs. Beale.
It isn't in ME to be so beautifully discreet," Sir Claude said. "But
all the same," he continued, "I leave the thing, now that we're here,
absolutely WITH you. You must settle it. We'll only go in if you say so.
If you don't say so we'll turn right round and drive away."

"So in that case Mrs. Beale won't take me?"

"Well--not by any act of ours."

"And I shall be able to go on with mamma?" Maisie asked.

"Oh I don't say that!"

She considered. "But I thought you said you had squared her?"

Sir Claude poked his stick at the splashboard of the cab. "Not, my dear
child, to the point she now requires."

"Then if she turns me out and I don't come here--"

Sir Claude promptly took her up. "What do I offer you, you naturally
enquire? My poor chick, that's just what I ask myself. I don't see it,
I confess, quite as straight as Mrs. Wix."

His companion gazed a moment at what Mrs. Wix saw. "You mean WE can't
make a little family?"

"It's very base of me, no doubt, but I can't wholly chuck your mother."

Maisie, at this, emitted a low but lengthened sigh, a slight sound of
reluctant assent which would certainly have been amusing to an auditor.
"Then there isn't anything else?"

"I vow I don't quite see what there is."

Maisie waited; her silence seemed to signify that she too had no
alternative to suggest. But she made another appeal. "If I come here
you'll come to see me?"

"I won't lose sight of you."

"But how often will you come?" As he hung fire she pressed him. "Often
and often?"

Still he faltered. "My dear old woman--" he began. Then he paused again,
going on the next moment with a change of tone. "You're too funny! Yes
then," he said; "often and often."

"All right!" Maisie jumped out. Mrs. Beale was at home, but not in the
drawing-room, and when the butler had gone for her the child suddenly
broke out: "But when I'm here what will Mrs. Wix do?"

"Ah you should have thought of that sooner!" said her companion with the
first faint note of asperity she had ever heard him sound.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Sir Claude continues to take Maisie on outings--those specifically mentioned at the beginning of this chapter are the National Gallery and a cafe on Baker Street. As they visit sites together, Sir Claude and Maisie have candid, mature conversations about the nature of Sir Claude's relationships with Ida and Mrs. Beale. When Maisie asks Sir Claude if he has seen Mrs. Beale in person since their first meeting, Sir Claude says that they haven't met in person but they have exchanged letters. He then cuts off the conversation by teasing Maisie about the number of buns she's eaten during tea time. When Maisie tells Mrs. Wix later about how Sir Claude has not seen Mrs. Beale in person, Mrs. Wix says that he actually has seen the woman, meaning he lied to Maisie. When Maisie asks how she knows this, Mrs. Wix says that she herself has gone to see Mrs. Beale and found out directly. Mrs. Wix reports that not only has he seen Mrs. Beale, "He has seen her repeatedly". Maisie and Mrs. Wix are both so disturbed by the idea that Sir Claude has lied, having idolized him until this point, that they weep together. The next day, when Sir Claude takes Maisie out, instead of going to town he takes her to a house: her father and Mrs. Beale's new house. Maisie asks if he's brought her here for her to live with her father again, and Sir Claude says that isn't for him to decide. Maisie is conflicted as to whether she would want to stay at her father's house; she does miss Mrs. Beale and feels it has been "a hundred years since she had seen " , but she also doesn't want to leave Sir Claude for such a long time. She brings up Mrs. Wix's plan for Sir Claude, Maisie, and herself to live together, and Sir Claude says it isn't possible. However, he promises to visit her often if she does move to her father's house. As the chapter ends, Maisie suddenly realizes that she hasn't thought about what will happen to Mrs. Wix if she stays with her father and Mrs. Beale, but Sir Claude only teases, "Ah you should have thought of that sooner


prompt:
Chapter: Mrs Beale fairly swooped upon her and the effect of the whole hour was
to show the child how much, how quite formidably indeed, after all, she
was loved. This was the more the case as her stepmother, so changed--in
the very manner of her mother--that she really struck her as a new
acquaintance, somehow recalled more familiarity than Maisie could feel.
A rich strong expressive affection in short pounced upon her in the
shape of a handsomer, ampler, older Mrs. Beale. It was like making a
fine friend, and they hadn't been a minute together before she felt
elated at the way she had met the choice imposed on her in the cab.
There was a whole future in the combination of Mrs. Beale's beauty and
Mrs. Beale's hug. She seemed to Maisie charming to behold, and also to
have no connexion at all with anybody who had once mended underclothing
and had meals in the nursery. The child knew one of her father's wives
was a woman of fashion, but she had always dimly made a distinction, not
applying that epithet without reserve to the other. Mrs. Beale had since
their separation acquired a conspicuous right to it, and Maisie's first
flush of response to her present delight coloured all her splendour with
meanings that this time were sweet. She had told Sir Claude she was
afraid of the lady in the Regent's Park; but she had confidence enough
to break on the spot, into the frankest appreciation. "Why, aren't you
beautiful? Isn't she beautiful, Sir Claude, ISN'T she?"

"The handsomest woman in London, simply," Sir Claude gallantly replied.
"Just as sure as you're the best little girl!"

Well, the handsomest woman in London gave herself up, with tender
lustrous looks and every demonstration of fondness, to a happiness at
last clutched again. There was almost as vivid a bloom in her maturity
as in mamma's, and it took her but a short time to give her little
friend an impression of positive power--an impression that seemed to
begin like a long bright day. This was a perception on Maisie's part
that neither mamma, nor Sir Claude, nor Mrs. Wix, with their immense and
so varied respective attractions, had exactly kindled, and that made an
immediate difference when the talk, as it promptly did, began to turn to
her father. Oh yes, Mr. Farange was a complication, but she saw now that
he wouldn't be one for his daughter. For Mrs. Beale certainly he was an
immense one--she speedily made known as much; but Mrs. Beale from this
moment presented herself to Maisie as a person to whom a great gift had
come. The great gift was just for handling complications. Maisie felt
how little she made of them when, after she had dropped to Sir Claude
some recall of a previous meeting, he made answer, with a sound of
consternation and yet an air of relief, that he had denied to their
companion their having, since the day he came for her, seen each other
till that moment.

Mrs. Beale could but vaguely pity it. "Why did you do anything so
silly?"

"To protect your reputation."

"From Maisie?" Mrs. Beale was much amused. "My reputation with Maisie is
too good to suffer."

"But you believed me, you rascal, didn't you?" Sir Claude asked of the
child.

She looked at him; she smiled. "Her reputation did suffer. I discovered
you had been here."

He was not too chagrined to laugh. "The way, my dear, you talk of that
sort of thing!"

"How should she talk," Mrs. Beale wanted to know, "after all this
wretched time with her mother?"

"It was not mamma who told me," Maisie explained. "It was only Mrs.
Wix." She was hesitating whether to bring out before Sir Claude the
source of Mrs. Wix's information; but Mrs. Beale, addressing the young
man, showed the vanity of scruples.

"Do you know that preposterous person came to see me a day or two
ago?--when I told her I had seen you repeatedly."

Sir Claude, for once in a way, was disconcerted. "The old cat! She never
told me. Then you thought I had lied?" he demanded of Maisie.

She was flurried by the term with which he had qualified her gentle
friend, but she took the occasion for one to which she must in every
manner lend herself. "Oh I didn't mind! But Mrs. Wix did," she added
with an intention benevolent to her governess.

Her intention was not very effective as regards Mrs. Beale. "Mrs. Wix is
too idiotic!" that lady declared.

"But to you, of all people," Sir Claude asked, "what had she to say?"

"Why that, like Mrs. Micawber--whom she must, I think, rather
resemble--she will never, never, never desert Miss Farange."

"Oh I'll make that all right!" Sir Claude cheerfully returned.

"I'm sure I hope so, my dear man," said Mrs. Beale, while Maisie
wondered just how he would proceed. Before she had time to ask Mrs.
Beale continued: "That's not all she came to do, if you please. But
you'll never guess the rest."

"Shall _I_ guess it?" Maisie quavered.

Mrs. Beale was again amused. "Why you're just the person! It must be
quite the sort of thing you've heard at your awful mother's. Have you
never seen women there crying to her to 'spare' the men they love?"

Maisie, wondering, tried to remember; but Sir Claude was freshly
diverted. "Oh they don't trouble about Ida! Mrs. Wix cried to you to
spare ME?"

"She regularly went down on her knees to me."

"The darling old dear!" the young man exclaimed.

These words were a joy to Maisie--they made up for his previous
description of Mrs. Wix. "And WILL you spare him?" she asked of Mrs.
Beale.

Her stepmother, seizing her and kissing her again, seemed charmed with
the tone of her question. "Not an inch of him! I'll pick him to the
bone!"

"You mean that he'll really come often?" Maisie pressed.

Mrs. Beale turned lovely eyes to Sir Claude. "That's not for me to
say--its for him."

He said nothing at once, however; with his hands in his pockets
and vaguely humming a tune--even Maisie could see he was a little
nervous--he only walked to the window and looked out at the Regent's
Park. "Well, he has promised," Maisie said. "But how will papa like it?"

"His being in and out? Ah that's a question that, to be frank with you,
my dear, hardly matters. In point of fact, however, Beale greatly enjoys
the idea that Sir Claude too, poor man, has been forced to quarrel with
your mother."

Sir Claude turned round and spoke gravely and kindly. "Don't be afraid,
Maisie; you won't lose sight of me."

"Thank you so much!" Maisie was radiant. "But what I meant--don't you
know?--was what papa would say to ME."

"Oh I've been having that out with him," said Mrs. Beale. "He'll behave
well enough. You see the great difficulty is that, though he changes
every three days about everything else in the world, he has never
changed about your mother. It's a caution, the way he hates her."

Sir Claude gave a short laugh. "It certainly can't beat the way she
still hates HIM!"

"Well," Mrs. Beale went on obligingly, "nothing can take the place of
that feeling with either of them, and the best way they can think of to
show it is for each to leave you as long as possible on the hands of the
other. There's nothing, as you've seen for yourself, that makes either
so furious. It isn't, asking so little as you do, that you're much of
an expense or a trouble; it's only that you make each feel so well how
nasty the other wants to be. Therefore Beale goes on loathing your
mother too much to have any great fury left for any one else. Besides,
you know, I've squared him."

"Oh Lord!" Sir Claude cried with a louder laugh and turning again to the
window.

"_I_ know how!" Maisie was prompt to proclaim. "By letting him do what
he wants on condition that he lets you also do it."

"You're too delicious, my own pet!"--she was involved in another hug.
"How in the world have I got on so long without you? I've not been
happy, love," said Mrs. Beale with her cheek to the child's.

"Be happy now!"--she throbbed with shy tenderness.

"I think I shall be. You'll save me."

"As I'm saving Sir Claude?" the little girl asked eagerly.

Mrs. Beale, a trifle at a loss, appealed to her visitor, "Is she
really?"

He showed high amusement at Maisie's question. "It's dear Mrs. Wix's
idea. There may be something in it."

"He makes me his duty--he makes me his life," Maisie set forth to her
stepmother.

"Why that's what _I_ want to do!"--Mrs. Beale, so anticipated, turned
pink with astonishment.

"Well, you can do it together. Then he'll HAVE to come!"

Mrs. Beale by this time had her young friend fairly in her lap and she
smiled up at Sir Claude. "Shall we do it together?"

His laughter had dropped, and for a moment he turned his handsome
serious face not to his hostess, but to his stepdaughter. "Well, it's
rather more decent than some things. Upon my soul, the way things are
going, it seems to me the only decency!" He had the air of arguing it
out to Maisie, of presenting it, through an impulse of conscience, as a
connexion in which they could honourably see her participate; though his
plea of mere "decency" might well have appeared to fall below her rosy
little vision. "If we're not good for YOU" he exclaimed, "I'll be hanged
if I know who we shall be good for!"

Mrs. Beale showed the child an intenser light. "I dare say you WILL save
us--from one thing and another."

"Oh I know what she'll save ME from!" Sir Claude roundly asserted.
"There'll be rows of course," he went on.

Mrs. Beale quickly took him up. "Yes, but they'll be nothing--for you
at least--to the rows your wife makes as it is. I can bear what _I_
suffer--I can't bear what you go through."

"We're doing a good deal for you, you know, young woman," Sir Claude
went on to Maisie with the same gravity.

She coloured with a sense of obligation and the eagerness of her desire
it should be remarked how little was lost on her. "Oh I know!"

"Then you must keep us all right!" This time he laughed.

"How you talk to her!" cried Mrs. Beale.

"No worse than you!" he gaily answered.

"Handsome is that handsome does!" she returned in the same spirit. "You
can take off your things," she went on, releasing Maisie.

The child, on her feet, was all emotion. "Then I'm just to stop--this
way?"

"It will do as well as any other. Sir Claude, to-morrow, will have your
things brought."

"I'll bring them myself. Upon my word I'll see them packed!" Sir Claude
promised. "Come here and unbutton."

He had beckoned his young companion to where he sat, and he helped
to disengage her from her coverings while Mrs. Beale, from a little
distance, smiled at the hand he displayed. "There's a stepfather for
you! I'm bound to say, you know, that he makes up for the want of other
people."

"He makes up for the want of a nurse!" Sir Claude laughed. "Don't you
remember I told you so the very first time?"

"Remember? It was exactly what made me think so well of you!"

"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
and not be personal--I'll simply say that you're as handsome as you can
stick together."

"You're both very lovely; you can't get out of it!"--Maisie felt the
need of carrying her point. "And it's beautiful to see you side by
side."

Sir Claude had taken his hat and stick; he stood looking at her a
moment. "You're a comfort in trouble! But I must go home and pack you."

"And when will you come back?--to-morrow, to-morrow?"

"You see what we're in for!" he said to Mrs. Beale.

"Well, I can bear it if you can."

Their companion gazed from one of them to the other, thinking that
though she had been happy indeed between Sir Claude and Mrs. Wix she
should evidently be happier still between Sir Claude and Mrs. Beale. But
it was like being perched on a prancing horse, and she made a movement
to hold on to something. "Then, you know, shan't I bid goodbye to Mrs.
Wix?"

"Oh I'll make it all right with her," said Sir Claude.

Maisie considered. "And with mamma?"

"Ah mamma!" he sadly laughed.

Even for the child this was scarcely ambiguous; but Mrs. Beale
endeavoured to contribute to its clearness. "Your mother will crow,
she'll crow--"

"Like the early bird!" said Sir Claude as she looked about for a
comparison.

"She'll need no consolation," Mrs. Beale went on, "for having made your
father grandly blaspheme."

Maisie stared. "Will he grandly blaspheme?" It was impressive, it might
have been out of the Bible, and her question produced a fresh play of
caresses, in which Sir Claude also engaged. She wondered meanwhile who,
if Mrs. Wix was disposed of, would represent in her life the element of
geography and anecdote; and she presently surmounted the delicacy she
felt about asking. "Won't there be any one to give me lessons?"

Mrs. Beale was prepared with a reply that struck her as absolutely
magnificent. "You shall have such lessons as you've never had in all
your life. You shall go to courses."

"Courses?" Maisie had never heard of such things.

"At institutions--on subjects."

Maisie continued to stare. "Subjects?"

Mrs. Beale was really splendid. "All the most important ones. French
literature--and sacred history. You'll take part in classes--with
awfully smart children."

"I'm going to look thoroughly into the whole thing, you know." And Sir
Claude, with characteristic kindness, gave her a nod of assurance
accompanied by a friendly wink.

But Mrs. Beale went much further. "My dear child, you shall attend
lectures."

The horizon was suddenly vast and Maisie felt herself the smaller for
it. "All alone?"

"Oh no; I'll attend them with you," said Sir Claude. "They'll teach me
a lot I don't know."

"So they will me," Mrs. Beale gravely admitted. "We'll go with her
together--it will be charming. It's ages," she confessed to Maisie,
"since I've had any time for study. That's another sweet way in which
you'll be a motive to us. Oh won't the good she'll do us be immense?"
she broke out uncontrollably to Sir Claude.

He weighed it; then he replied: "That's certainly our idea."

Of this idea Maisie naturally had less of a grasp, but it inspired her
with almost equal enthusiasm. If in so bright a prospect there would be
nothing to long for it followed that she wouldn't long for Mrs. Wix;
but her consciousness of her assent to the absence of that fond figure
caused a pair of words that had often sounded in her ears to ring in
them again. It showed her in short what her father had always meant by
calling her mother a "low sneak" and her mother by calling her father
one. She wondered if she herself shouldn't be a low sneak in learning to
be so happy without Mrs. Wix. What would Mrs. Wix do?--where would Mrs.
Wix go? Before Maisie knew it, and at the door, as Sir Claude was off,
these anxieties, on her lips, grew articulate and her stepfather had
stopped long enough to answer them. "Oh I'll square her!" he cried; and
with this he departed.

Face to face with Mrs. Beale, Maisie, giving a sigh of relief, looked
round at what seemed to her the dawn of a higher order. "Then EVERY
ONE will be squared!" she peacefully said. On which her stepmother
affectionately bent over her again.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Mrs. Beale greets Maisie with hugs and praise, and Maisie interestingly notes that her stepmother is acting "in the very manner of her mother". Maisie notes anew how beautiful Mrs. Beale is, especially now that she is a bit older. Early in the conversation, Mrs. Beale reveals that Sir Claude has indeed been visiting her. Sir Claude is chagrined at his lie coming out, saying that he told it "to protect reputation" , but Maisie informs him that she already knew the truth from Mrs. Wix. Maisie tells Sir Claude that she was not bothered by his lie but that Mrs. Wix was. Mrs. Beale, Maisie, and Sir Claude discuss Sir Claude visiting often while Maisie is living at her father's house. Maisie tells Mrs. Beale about how Mrs. Wix has said she is saving Sir Claude by being his duty and his life, and Mrs. Beale says that she wants to do the same. The two adults commiserate about their spouses. Abruptly, it is decided that Maisie will stay at the house and live with her father for a while and Sir Claude will send her luggage the next day. Sir Claude compliments Maisie on her beauty, and Mrs. Beale explains that he means beauty of character. Maisie compliments both adults back, saying they look beautiful together. Maisie begs Sir Claude to come back the next day, thinking that it is actually more fun to be with Sir Claude and Mrs. Beale than Sir Claude and Mrs. Wix. She does regret that she won't get to say goodbye to Mrs. Wix, but Sir Claude says he will deal with Mrs. Wix and Ida. Mrs. Beale suggests that Maisie should start taking classes "at institutions--on subjects" , including French literature and history. When Maisie seems frightened at the prospect, Sir Claude and Mrs. Beale say that they'll attend the lessons as well. The chapter ends with Maisie fretting again about Mrs. Wix but having her fear and guilt assuaged once again by Sir Claude's promise to "square her"


prompt:
Chapter: It was Susan Ash who came to her with the news: "He's downstairs, miss,
and he do look beautiful."

In the schoolroom at her father's, which had pretty blue curtains, she
had been making out at the piano a lovely little thing, as Mrs. Beale
called it, a "Moonlight Berceuse" sent her through the post by Sir
Claude, who considered that her musical education had been deplorably
neglected and who, the last months at her mother's, had been on the
point of making arrangements for regular lessons. She knew from him
familiarly that the real thing, as he said, was shockingly dear and that
anything else was a waste of money, and she therefore rejoiced the more
at the sacrifice represented by this composition, of which the price,
five shillings, was marked on the cover and which was evidently the real
thing. She was already on her feet. "Mrs. Beale has sent up for me?"

"Oh no--it's not that," said Susan Ash. "Mrs. Beale has been out this
hour."

"Then papa!"

"Dear no--not papa. You'll do, miss, all but them wandering 'airs,"
Susan went on. "Your papa never came 'ome at all," she added.

"Home from where?" Maisie responded a little absently and very
excitedly. She gave a wild manual brush to her locks.

"Oh that, miss, I should be very sorry to tell you! I'd rather tuck away
that white thing behind--though I'm blest if it's my work."

"Do then, please. I know where papa was," Maisie impatiently continued.

"Well, in your place I wouldn't tell."

"He was at the club--the Chrysanthemum. So!"

"All night long? Why the flowers shut up at night, you know!" cried
Susan Ash.

"Well, I don't care"--he child was at the door. "Sir Claude asked for me
ALONE?"

"The same as if you was a duchess."

Maisie was aware on her way downstairs that she was now quite as happy
as one, and also, a moment later, as she hung round his neck, that
even such a personage would scarce commit herself more grandly. There
was moreover a hint of the duchess in the infinite point with which,
as she felt, she exclaimed: "And this is what you call coming OFTEN?"

Sir Claude met her delightfully and in the same fine spirit. "My dear
old man, don't make me a scene--I assure you it's what every woman I
look at does. Let us have some fun--it's a lovely day: clap on something
smart and come out with me; then we'll talk it over quietly."

They were on their way five minutes later to Hyde Park, and nothing that
even in the good days at her mother's they had ever talked over had more
of the sweetness of tranquillity than his present prompt explanations.
He was at his best in such an office and with the exception of Mrs. Wix
the only person she had met in her life who ever explained. With him,
however, the act had an authority transcending the wisdom of woman. It
all came back--the plans that always failed, all the rewards and bribes
that she was perpetually paying for in advance and perpetually out of
pocket by afterwards--the whole great stress to be dealt with introduced
her on each occasion afresh to the question of money. Even she herself
almost knew how it would have expressed the strength of his empire to
say that to shuffle away her sense of being duped he had only, from
under his lovely moustache, to breathe upon it. It was somehow in the
nature of plans to be expensive and in the nature of the expensive to be
impossible. To be "involved" was of the essence of everybody's affairs,
and also at every particular moment to be more involved than usual.
This had been the case with Sir Claude's, with papa's, with mamma's,
with Mrs. Beale's and with Maisie's own at the particular moment, a
moment of several weeks, that had elapsed since our young lady had been
re-established at her father's. There wasn't "two-and-tuppence" for
anything or for any one, and that was why there had been no sequel to
the classes in French literature with all the smart little girls. It
was devilish awkward, didn't she see? to try, without even the limited
capital mentioned, to mix her up with a remote array that glittered
before her after this as the children of the rich. She was to feel
henceforth as if she were flattening her nose upon the hard window-pane
of the sweet-shop of knowledge. If the classes, however, that were
select, and accordingly the only ones, were impossibly dear, the
lectures at the institutions--at least at some of them--were directly
addressed to the intelligent poor, and it therefore had to be easier
still to produce on the spot the reason why she had been taken to none.
This reason, Sir Claude said, was that she happened to be just going to
be, though they had nothing to do with that in now directing their steps
to the banks of the Serpentine. Maisie's own park, in the north, had
been nearer at hand, but they rolled westward in a hansom because at the
end of the sweet June days this was the direction taken by every one
that any one looked at. They cultivated for an hour, on the Row and
by the Drive, this opportunity for each observer to amuse and for one
of them indeed, not a little hilariously, to mystify the other, and
before the hour was over Maisie had elicited, in reply to her sharpest
challenge, a further account of her friend's long absence.

"Why I've broken my word to you so dreadfully--promising so solemnly and
then never coming? Well, my dear, that's a question that, not seeing me
day after day, you must very often have put to Mrs. Beale."

"Oh yes," the child replied; "again and again."

"And what has she told you?"

"That you're as bad as you're beautiful."

"Is that what she says?"

"Those very words."

"Ah the dear old soul!" Sir Claude was much diverted, and his loud,
clear laugh was all his explanation. Those were just the words Maisie
had last heard him use about Mrs. Wix. She clung to his hand, which was
encased in a pearl-grey glove ornamented with the thick black lines
that, at her mother's, always used to strike her as connected with the
way the bestitched fists of the long ladies carried, with the elbows
well out, their umbrellas upside down. The mere sense of his grasp in
her own covered the ground of loss just as much as the ground of gain.
His presence was like an object brought so close to her face that she
couldn't see round its edges. He himself, however, remained showman of
the spectacle even after they had passed out of the Park and begun,
under the charm of the spot and the season, to stroll in Kensington
Gardens. What they had left behind them was, as he said, only a pretty
bad circus, and, through prepossessing gates and over a bridge, they
had come in a quarter of an hour, as he also remarked, a hundred miles
from London. A great green glade was before them, and high old trees,
and under the shade of these, in the fresh turf, the crooked course
of a rural footpath. "It's the Forest of Arden," Sir Claude had just
delightfully observed, "and I'm the banished duke, and you're--what was
the young woman called?--the artless country wench. And there," he went
on, "is the other girl--what's her name, Rosalind?--and (don't you
know?) the fellow who was making up to her. Upon my word he IS making
up to her!"

His allusion was to a couple who, side by side, at the end of the glade,
were moving in the same direction as themselves. These distant figures,
in their slow stroll (which kept them so close together that their
heads, drooping a little forward, almost touched), presented the back of
a lady who looked tall, who was evidently a very fine woman, and that
of a gentleman whose left hand appeared to be passed well into her arm
while his right, behind him, made jerky motions with the stick that it
grasped. Maisie's fancy responded for an instant to her friend's idea
that the sight was idyllic; then, stopping short, she brought out with
all her clearness: "Why mercy--if it isn't mamma!"

Sir Claude paused with a stare. "Mamma? But mamma's at Brussels."

Maisie, with her eyes on the lady, wondered. "At Brussels?"

"She's gone to play a match."

"At billiards? You didn't tell me."

"Of course I didn't!" Sir Claude ejaculated. "There's plenty I don't
tell you. She went on Wednesday."

The couple had added to their distance, but Maisie's eyes more than kept
pace with them. "Then she has come back."

Sir Claude watched the lady. "It's much more likely she never went!"

"It's mamma!" the child said with decision.

They had stood still, but Sir Claude had made the most of his
opportunity, and it happened that just at this moment, at the end of the
vista, the others halted and, still showing only their backs, seemed to
stay talking. "Right you are, my duck!" he exclaimed at last. "It's my
own sweet wife!"

He had spoken with a laugh, but he had changed colour, and Maisie
quickly looked away from him. "Then who is it with her?"

"Blest if I know!" said Sir Claude.

"Is it Mr. Perriam?"

"Oh dear no--Perriam's smashed."

"Smashed?"

"Exposed--in the City. But there are quantities of others!" Sir Claude
smiled.

Maisie appeared to count them; she studied the gentleman's back. "Then
is this Lord Eric?"

For a moment her companion made no answer, and when she turned her eyes
again to him he was looking at her, she thought, rather queerly. "What
do you know about Lord Eric?"

She tried innocently to be odd in return. "Oh I know more than you
think! Is it Lord Eric?" she repeated.

"It maybe. Blest if I care!"

Their friends had slightly separated and now, as Sir Claude spoke,
suddenly faced round, showing all the splendour of her ladyship and all
the mystery of her comrade. Maisie held her breath. "They're coming!"

"Let them come." And Sir Claude, pulling out his cigarettes, began to
strike a light.

"We shall meet them!"

"No. They'll meet US."

Maisie stood her ground. "They see us. Just look."

Sir Claude threw away his match. "Come straight on." The others, in the
return, evidently startled, had half-paused again, keeping well apart.
"She's horribly surprised and wants to slope," he continued. "But it's
too late."

Maisie advanced beside him, making out even across the interval that her
ladyship was ill at ease. "Then what will she do?"

Sir Claude puffed his cigarette. "She's quickly thinking." He appeared
to enjoy it.

Ida had wavered but an instant; her companion clearly gave her moral
support. Maisie thought he somehow looked brave, and he had no likeness
whatever to Mr. Perriam. His face, thin and rather sharp, was smooth,
and it was not till they came nearer that she saw he had a remarkably
fair little moustache. She could already see that his eyes were of the
lightest blue. He was far nicer than Mr. Perriam. Mamma looked terrible
from afar, but even under her guns the child's curiosity flickered and
she appealed again to Sir Claude. "Is it--IS it Lord Eric?"

Sir Claude smoked composedly enough. "I think it's the Count."

This was a happy solution--it fitted her idea of a count. But what idea,
as she now came grandly on, did mamma fit?--unless that of an actress,
in some tremendous situation, sweeping down to the footlights as if she
would jump them. Maisie felt really so frightened that before she knew
it she had passed her hand into Sir Claude's arm. Her pressure caused
him to stop, and at the sight of this the other couple came equally to
a stand and, beyond the diminished space, remained a moment more in
talk. This, however, was the matter of an instant; leaving the Count
apparently to come round more circuitously--an outflanking movement, if
Maisie had but known--her ladyship resumed the onset. "What WILL she do
now?" her daughter asked.

Sir Claude was at present in a position to say: "Try to pretend it's
me."

"You?"

"Why that I'm up to something."

In another minute poor Ida had justified this prediction, erect there
before them like a figure of justice in full dress. There were parts of
her face that grew whiter while Maisie looked, and other parts in which
this change seemed to make other colours reign with more intensity.
"What are you doing with my daughter?" she demanded of her husband; in
spite of the indignant tone of which Maisie had a greater sense than
ever in her life before of not being personally noticed. It seemed to
her Sir Claude also grew pale as an effect of the loud defiance with
which Ida twice repeated this question. He put her, instead of answering
it, an enquiry of his own: "Who the devil have you got hold of NOW?"
and at this her ladyship turned tremendously to the child, glaring at
her as at an equal plotter of sin. Maisie received in petrifaction the
full force of her mother's huge painted eyes--they were like Japanese
lanterns swung under festal arches. But life came back to her from a
tone suddenly and strangely softened. "Go straight to that gentleman, my
dear; I've asked him to take you a few minutes. He's charming--go. I've
something to say to THIS creature."

Maisie felt Sir Claude immediately clutch her. "No, no--thank you: that
won't do. She's mine."

"Yours?" It was confounding to Maisie to hear her speak quite as if she
had never heard of Sir Claude before.

"Mine. You've given her up. You've not another word to say about her. I
have her from her father," said Sir Claude--a statement that startled
his companion, who could also measure its lively action on her mother.

There was visibly, however, an influence that made Ida consider; she
glanced at the gentleman she had left, who, having strolled with his
hands in his pockets to some distance, stood there with unembarrassed
vagueness. She directed to him the face that was like an illuminated
garden, turnstile and all, for the frequentation of which he had his
season-ticket; then she looked again at Sir Claude. "I've given her
up to her father to KEEP--not to get rid of by sending about the town
either with you or with any one else. If she's not to mind me let HIM
come and tell me so. I decline to take it from another person, and I
like your pretending that with your humbug of 'interest' you've a leg to
stand on. I know your game and have something now to say to you about
it."

Sir Claude gave a squeeze of the child's arm. "Didn't I tell you she'd
have, Miss Farange?"

"You're uncommonly afraid to hear it," Ida went on; "but if you think
she'll protect you from it you're mightily mistaken." She gave him a
moment. "I'll give her the benefit as soon as look at you. Should you
like her to know, my dear?" Maisie had a sense of her launching the
question with effect; yet our young lady was also conscious of hoping
that Sir Claude would declare that preference. We have already learned
that she had come to like people's liking her to "know." Before he
could reply at all, none the less, her mother opened a pair of arms of
extraordinary elegance, and then she felt the loosening of his grasp.
"My own child," Ida murmured in a voice--a voice of sudden confused
tenderness--that it seemed to her she heard for the first time. She
wavered but an instant, thrilled with the first direct appeal, as
distinguished from the mere maternal pull, she had ever had from lips
that, even in the old vociferous years, had always been sharp. The next
moment she was on her mother's breast, where, amid a wilderness of
trinkets, she felt as if she had suddenly been thrust, with a smash of
glass, into a jeweller's shop-front, but only to be as suddenly ejected
with a push and the brisk injunction: "Now go to the Captain!"

Maisie glanced at the gentleman submissively, but felt the want of more
introduction. "The Captain?"

Sir Claude broke into a laugh. "I told her it was the Count."

Ida stared; she rose so superior that she was colossal. "You're too
utterly loathsome," she then declared. "Be off!" she repeated to her
daughter.

Maisie started, moved backward and, looking at Sir Claude, "Only for a
moment," she signed to him in her bewilderment. But he was too angry
to heed her--too angry with his wife; as she turned away she heard his
anger break out. "You damned old b----"--she couldn't quite hear all.
It was enough, it was too much: she fled before it, rushing even to a
stranger for the shock of such a change of tone.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: One day, Sir Claude comes to Maisie's father's house specifically to take her out with him. It is revealed that Maisie has been living at her father's for several weeks, and Sir Claude has not been visiting much at all. Maisie has also not been attending lessons, because her father doesn't have the money. Sir Claude takes Maisie to the park for a walk, and Maisie almost immediately stops being mad at him for not visiting more. Suddenly, Maisie and Sir Claude see Maisie's mother far off in the park walking with a man. Sir Claude tells Maisie that her mother was supposed to be playing billiards in Brussels, but she must have lied. Maisie guesses that it could be Mr. Perriam or Lord Eric, but as they get closer Sir Claude says he thinks it is someone called the Count. Sir Claude guesses that Ida will take attention off of her own behavior by getting mad at him for something. Indeed, when they are close enough, Ida starts to yell at Sir Claude for being with Maisie. She sends Maisie off with the man she is with, who she calls the Captain, so that she can talk to Sir Claude alone, but Maisie won't go at first. However, when Sir Claude and Ida begin to fight more aggressively, Maisie runs off toward the stranger