S trouble? I
dare say not, and, if I may be quite free and dreadful, I very much
hope he won't take any more. Of course I won't pretend now," she
added, "not to know what it's a question of."

"Oh every one must know now," poor Strether thoughtfully admitted; "and
it's strange enough and funny enough that one should feel everybody
here at this very moment to be knowing and watching and waiting."

"Yes--isn't it indeed funny?" Miss Barrace quite rose to it. "That's
the way we ARE in Paris." She was always pleased with a new
contribution to that queerness. "It's wonderful! But, you know," she
declared, "it all depends on you. I don't want to turn the knife in
your vitals, but that's naturally what you just now meant by our all
being on top of you. We know you as the hero of the drama, and we're
gathered to see what you'll do."

Strether looked at her a moment with a light perhaps slightly obscured.
"I think that must be why the hero has taken refuge in this corner.
He's scared at his heroism--he shrinks from his part."

"Ah but we nevertheless believe he'll play it. That's why," Miss
Barrace kindly went on, "we take such an interest in you. We feel
you'll come up to the scratch." And then as he seemed perhaps not quite
to take fire: "Don't let him do it."

"Don't let Chad go?"

"Yes, keep hold of him. With all this"--and she indicated the general
tribute--"he has done enough. We love him here--he's charming."

"It's beautiful," said Strether, "the way you all can simplify when you
will."

But she gave it to him back. "It's nothing to the way you will when
you must."

He winced at it as at the very voice of prophecy, and it kept him a
moment quiet. He detained her, however, on her appearing about to
leave him alone in the rather cold clearance their talk had made.
"There positively isn't a sign of a hero to-night; the hero's dodging
and shirking, the hero's ashamed. Therefore, you know, I think, what
you must all REALLY be occupied with is the heroine."

Miss Barrace took a minute. "The heroine?"

"The heroine. I've treated her," said Strether, "not a bit like a
hero. Oh," he sighed, "I don't do it well!"

She eased him off. "You do it as you can." And then after another
hesitation: "I think she's satisfied."

But he remained compunctious. "I haven't been near her. I haven't
looked at her."

"Ah then you've lost a good deal!"

He showed he knew it. "She's more wonderful than ever?"