Wasn't it simply what had been written in the Prince's own face BENEATH what he was saying ?--didn't it correspond with the mocking presence there that she had had her troubled glimpse of?
Wasn't, in fine, the pledge that they would "manage in their own way" the thing he had been feeling for his chance to invite her to take from him?
Her husband's tone somehow fitted Amerigo's look--the one that had, for her, so strangely, peeped, from behind, over the shoulder of the one in front.

She had not then read it--but wasn't she reading it when she now saw in it his surmise that she was perhaps to be squared?
She wasn't to be squared, and while she heard her companion call across to her "Well, what's the matter ?" she also took time to remind herself that she had decided she couldn't be frightened.

The "matter" ?--why, it was sufficiently the matter, with all this, that she felt a little sick.

For it was not the Prince that she had been prepared to regard as primarily the shaky one.

Shakiness in Charlotte she had, at the most, perhaps postulated--it would be, she somehow felt, more easy to deal with.
Therefore if HE had come so far it was a different pair of sleeves.
There was nothing to choose between them.