something that might have been unexpected to her came from him. "Poor little duck!"
Not more expected for himself indeed might well have been her echo of it. "Poor little duck! But she immensely wants, herself," she said, "to see our friend's cousin."
"Is that what she thinks her?"
"It's what we call the young lady."
He thought again; then, with a laugh, "Well, your daughter will help you."
And now at last he took leave of her, as he had been intending for five minutes. But she went part of the way with him, accompanying him out of the room and into the next and the next. Her noble old apartment offered a succession of three, the first two of which indeed, on entering, smaller than the last, but each with its faded and formal air, enlarged the office of the antechamber and enriched the sense of approach. Strether fancied them, liked them, and, passing through them with her more slowly now, met a sharp renewal of his original impression. He stopped, he looked back; the whole thing made a vista, which he found high, melancholy and sweet—full, once more, of dim historic shades, of the faint, far-away cannon-roar of the great Empire. It was doubtless half the projection of his mind, but his mind was a thing that, among old waxed parquets, pale tones of pink and green, pseudo-classic candelabra, he had always needfully to reckon with. They could easily make him irrelevant. The oddity, the originality, the poetry—he didn't know what to call it—of Chad's connection reaffirmed for him its romantic side. "They ought to see this, you know. They must."
"The Pococks?" She looked about in deprecation; she seemed to see gaps he didn't.
"Mamie and Sarah—Mamie in particular."
"My shabby old place? But their things———!"
"Oh, their things! You were talking of what will do something for you———"
"So that it strikes you," she broke in, "that my poor place may? Oh," she ruefully mused, "that would be desperate!"
