e sturdily pursued. "And I cordially
admit," he added with his conscious gaiety of courage, "that she's as
wonderful a woman as you like."

"Ah it isn't I who 'like,' dear Mr. Strether, anything to do with the
matter!" Sarah Pocock promptly protested; "and I'm by no means sure I
have--from my mother or from any one else--a notion of whom you're
talking about."

"Well, he won't let you see her, you know," Madame de Vionnet
sympathetically threw in. "He never lets me--old friends as we are: I
mean as I am with Maria. He reserves her for his best hours; keeps her
consummately to himself; only gives us others the crumbs of the feast."

"Well, Countess, I'VE had some of the crumbs," Waymarsh observed with
weight and covering her with his large look; which led her to break in
before he could go on.

"Comment donc, he shares her with YOU?" she exclaimed in droll
stupefaction. "Take care you don't have, before you go much further,
rather more of all ces dames than you may know what to do with!"

But he only continued in his massive way. "I can post you about the
lady, Mrs. Pocock, so far as you may care to hear. I've seen her quite
a number of times, and I was practically present when they made
acquaintance. I've kept my eye on her right along, but I don't know as
there's any real harm in her."

"'Harm'?" Madame de Vionnet quickly echoed. "Why she's the dearest and
cleverest of all the clever and dear."

"Well, you run her pretty close, Countess," Waymarsh returned with
spirit; "though there's no doubt she's pretty well up in things. She
knows her way round Europe. Above all there's no doubt she does love
Strether."

"Ah but we all do that--we all love Strether: it isn't a merit!" their
fellow visitor laughed, keeping to her idea with a good conscience at
which our friend was aware that he marvelled, though he trusted also
for it, as he met her exquisitely expressive eyes, to some later light.

The prime effect of her tone, however--and it was a truth which his own
eyes gave back to her in sad ironic play--could only be to make him
feel that, to say such things to a man in public, a woman must
practically think of him as ninety years old. He had turned awkwardly,
responsively red, he knew, at her mention of Maria Gostrey; Sarah
Pocock's presence--the particular quality of it--had made this
inevitable; and then he had grown still redder in proportion as he
hated to have shown anything at all. He felt indee