My getting all this good is what Chad has waited for, and I gather that if I'm ready to go he's the same."
She shook her head with a finer, deeper wisdom. "You're not ready. If you're ready, why did you write to Mrs. Newsome in the sense you've mentioned to me?"
Strether considered. "I shan't go before I hear from her. You're too much afraid of her," he added.
It produced between them a long look from which neither shrank. "I don't think you believe that—believe I've not really reason to fear her."
"She's capable of great generosity," Strether presently declared.
"Well then, let her trust me a little. That's all I ask. Let her recognise, in spite of everything, what I've done."
"Ah, remember," our friend replied, "that she can't effectually recognise it without seeing it for herself. Let Chad go over and show her what you've done, and let him plead with her there for it and, as it were, for you."
She measured the depth of this suggestion. "Do you give me your word of honour that if she once has him there she won't do her best to marry him?"
It made her companion, this inquiry, look again a while out at the view; after which he spoke without sharpness. "When she sees for herself what he is———"
But she had already broken in. "It's when she sees for herself what he is that she'll want to marry him most."
Strether's attitude, that of due deference to what she said, permitted him to attend for a minute to his luncheon. "I doubt if that will come off. It won't be easy to make it."
"It will be easy if he remains there—and he'll remain for the money. The money appears to be, as a probability, so hideously much."
"Well," Strether presently concluded, "nothing could really hurt you but his marrying."
She gave a strange light laugh. "Putting aside what may really hurt him."
But her friend looked at her as if he had thought of that too. "The question will come up, of course, of the future that you yourself offer him."
