and, with a sense that he had information,
Strether scarce knew what was coming. "He wants to be free. He isn't
used, you see," the young man explained in his lucid way, "to being so
good."

Strether hesitated. "Then I may take it from you that he IS good?"

His companion matched his pause, but making it up with a quiet fulness.
"DO take it from me."

"Well then why isn't he free? He swears to me he is, but meanwhile
does nothing--except of course that he's so kind to me--to prove it;
and couldn't really act much otherwise if he weren't. My question to
you just now was exactly on this queer impression of his diplomacy: as
if instead of really giving ground his line were to keep me on here and
set me a bad example."

As the half-hour meanwhile had ebbed Strether paid his score, and the
waiter was presently in the act of counting out change. Our friend
pushed back to him a fraction of it, with which, after an emphatic
recognition, the personage in question retreated. "You give too much,"
little Bilham permitted himself benevolently to observe.

"Oh I always give too much!" Strether helplessly sighed. "But you
don't," he went on as if to get quickly away from the contemplation of
that doom, "answer my question. Why isn't he free?"

Little Bilham had got up as if the transaction with the waiter had been
a signal, and had already edged out between the table and the divan.
The effect of this was that a minute later they had quitted the place,
the gratified waiter alert again at the open door. Strether had found
himself deferring to his companion's abruptness as to a hint that he
should be answered as soon as they were more isolated. This happened
when after a few steps in the outer air they had turned the next comer.
There our friend had kept it up. "Why isn't he free if he's good?"

Little Bilham looked him full in the face. "Because it's a virtuous
attachment."

This had settled the question so effectually for the time--that is for
the next few days--that it had given Strether almost a new lease of
life. It must be added however that, thanks to his constant habit of
shaking the bottle in which life handed him the wine of experience, he
presently found the taste of the lees rising as usual into his draught.
His imagination had in other words already dealt with his young
friend's assertion; of which it had made something that sufficiently
came out on the very next occasion of his seeing Maria Gostrey.