"To see him off?"
"With Chad—marvellously—as part of their general attention. And she does it"—it kept before him—"with a light, light grace, a little free, free gaiety, that may well softly bewilder Mr. Pocock."
It kept so before him that his companion had, after an instant, a friendly comment. "As, in short, it had softly bewildered you. Are you really in love with her?" Maria threw off.
"It's of no importance I should know," he replied: "it matters so little—has nothing to do, practically, with either of us."
"All the same"—Maria continued to smile—"they go, the five, as I understand you, and you and Mme. de Vionnet stay."
"Oh, and Chad." To which Strether added: "And you."
"Ah, 'me'!"—she gave a small impatient wail again, in which something of the unreconciled seemed suddenly to break out. "I don't stay, it somehow seems to me, much to my advantage. In the presence of all you cause to pass before me I've a tremendous sense of privation."
Strether hesitated. "But your privation, your keeping out of everything, has been—hasn't it?—by your own choice."
"Oh yes; it has been necessary—that is, it has been better for you. What I mean is only that I seem to have ceased to serve you."
"How can you tell that?" he asked. "You don't know how you serve me. When you cease———"
"Well?" she said as he dropped.
"Well, I'll let you know. You can be quiet till then."
She thought a moment. "Then you positively like me to stay?"
"Don't I treat you as if I did?"
"You're certainly very kind to me. But that," said Maria, "is for myself. It's getting late, as you see, and Paris turning rather hot and dusty. People are scattering, and some of them, in other places, want me. But if you want me here———!"
She had spoken as resigned to his word, but he had of
