d that he was
showing much, as, uncomfortably and almost in pain, he offered up his
redness to Waymarsh, who, strangely enough, seemed now to be looking at
him with a certain explanatory yearning. Something deep--something
built on their old old relation--passed, in this complexity, between
them; he got the side-wind of a loyalty that stood behind all actual
queer questions. Waymarsh's dry bare humour--as it gave itself to be
taken--gloomed out to demand justice. "Well, if you talk of Miss
Barrace I've MY chance too," it appeared stiffly to nod, and it granted
that it was giving him away, but struggled to add that it did so only
to save him. The sombre glow stared it at him till it fairly sounded
out--"to save you, poor old man, to save you; to save you in spite of
yourself." Yet it was somehow just this communication that showed him
to himself as more than ever lost. Still another result of it was to
put before him as never yet that between his comrade and the interest
represented by Sarah there was already a basis. Beyond all question
now, yes: Waymarsh had been in occult relation with Mrs. Newsome--out,
out it all came in the very effort of his face. "Yes, you're feeling
my hand"--he as good as proclaimed it; "but only because this at least
I SHALL have got out of the damned Old World: that I shall have picked
up the pieces into which it has caused you to crumble." It was as if in
short, after an instant, Strether had not only had it from him, but had
recognised that so far as this went the instant had cleared the air.
Our friend understood and approved; he had the sense that they wouldn't
otherwise speak of it. This would be all, and it would mark in himself
a kind of intelligent generosity. It was with grim Sarah then--Sarah
grim for all her grace--that Waymarsh had begun at ten o'clock in the
morning to save him. Well--if he COULD, poor dear man, with his big
bleak kindness! The upshot of which crowded perception was that
Strether, on his own side, still showed no more than he absolutely had
to. He showed the least possible by saying to Mrs. Pocock after an
interval much briefer than our glance at the picture reflected in him:
"Oh it's as true as they please!--There's no Miss Gostrey for any one
but me--not the least little peep. I keep her to myself."

"Well, it's very good of you to notify me," Sarah replied without
looking at him and thrown for a moment by this discrimination, as the
direction of