"Not at all. She rates him rather high." With which indeed, immediately, he himself took up. "Well, he is good too, in his way. It depends on what you want him for."
Miss Gostrey, however, wouldn't let it depend on anything—wouldn't have it, and wouldn't want him, at any price. "It suits my book," she said, "that he should be impossible; and it suits it still better," she more imaginatively added, "that Mrs. Newsome doesn't know he is."
Strether, in consequence, had to take it from her, but he fell back on something else. "I'll tell you who does really know."
"Mr. Waymarsh? Never!"
"Never indeed. I'm not always thinking of Mr. Waymarsh; in fact, I find now I never am." Then he mentioned the person as if there were a good deal in it. "Mamie."
"His own sister?" Oddly enough it but let her down. "What good will that do?"
"None perhaps. But there—as usual—we are!"
