"How much."
"Why, as much as you've made me. I'd give anything to see her. And you've left me," Chad went on, "in little enough doubt as to how much she wants it."
Strether thought a minute. "Well then, if those things are really your motive, catch the French steamer and sail to-morrow. Of course, when it comes to that, you're absolutely free to do as you choose. From the moment you can't hold yourself I can only accept your flight."
"I'll fly in a minute then," said Chad, "if you'll stay here."
"I'll stay here till the next steamer—then I'll follow you."
"And do you call that," Chad asked, "accepting my flight?"
"Certainly—it's the only thing to call it. The only way to keep me here, accordingly," Strether explained, "is by staying yourself."
Chad took it in. "All the more that I've really dished you, eh?"
"Dished me?" Strether echoed as inexpressibly as possible.
"Why, if she sends out the Pococks it will be that she doesn't trust you, and if she doesn't trust you, that bears upon—well, you know what."
Strether decided after a moment that he did know what, and in consonance with this he spoke. "You see then, all the more, what you owe me."
"Well, if I do see, how can I pay?"
"By not deserting me. By standing by me."
"Oh, I say———!" But Chad, as they went downstairs, clapped a firm hand, in the manner of a pledge, upon his shoulder. They descended slowly together and had, in the court of the hotel, some further talk, of which the upshot was that they presently separated. Chad Newsome departed, and Strether, left alone, looked about, superficially, for Waymarsh. But Waymarsh had not yet, it appeared, come down, and our friend finally went forth without a sight of him.
