That was not the kind of woman he had ever found Mrs. Newsome, a contemporaneous fact who had been distinctly slow to establish herself; and at present, confronted with Mme. de Vionnet, he felt the simplicity of his original impression of Miss Gostrey. She, certainly, had been a fact of rapid growth; but the world was wide, each day was more and more a new lesson. There were, at any rate, even among the stranger ones, relations and relations. "Of course I suit Chad's grand way," he quickly added. "He hasn't had much difficulty in working me in."
She seemed to deny a little, on the young man's behalf, by the rise of her eyebrows, an intention of any process at all inconsiderate. "You must know how grieved he would be if you were to lose anything. He believes you can keep his mother patient."
Strether wondered, with his eyes on her. "I see. That's then what you really want of me. And how am I to do it? Perhaps you'll tell me that."
"Simply tell her the truth."
"And what do you call the truth?"
"Well, any truth—about us all—that you see yourself. I leave it to you."
"Thank you very much. I like," Strether laughed with a slight harshness, "the way you leave things!"
But she insisted kindly, gently, as if it wasn't so bad. "Be perfectly honest. Tell her all."
"All?" he oddly echoed.
"Tell her the simple truth," Mme. de Vionnet developed in the same tone.
"But what is the simple truth? The simple truth is exactly what I'm trying to discover."
Mme. de Vionnet looked about awhile, but presently she came back to him. "Tell her, fully and clearly, about us."
Strether meanwhile had been staring. "You and your daughter?"
"Yes—little Jeanne and me. Tell her," she just slightly quavered, "you like us."
"And what good will that do me? Or rather"—he caught himself up—"what good will it do you?"
She looked graver. "None, you believe, really?"
