"No—he was on the other side of the house. And he was different."
Miss Gostrey kept it up. "Better?"
Her friend for a moment hung fire. "No."
Her comment on his hesitation was scarce the less marked for being mute. "Thank you. Now don't you see," she went on, "why the boy doesn't come home? He's drowning his shame."
"His shame? What shame?"
"What shame? Comment donc? The shame."
"But where and when," Strether asked, "is 'the shame'—where is any shame—to-day? The men I speak of—they did as everyone does; and—besides being ancient history—it was all a matter of appreciation."
She showed how she understood. "Mrs. Newsome has appreciated?"
"Ah, I can't speak for her!"
"In the midst of such doings—and, as I understand you, profiting by them, she at least has remained exquisite?"
"Oh, I can't talk of her!" Strether said.
"I thought she was just what you could talk of. You don't trust me," Miss Gostrey after a moment declared.
It had its effect. "Well, her money is spent, her life conceived and carried on with a large beneficence———"
"That's a kind of expiation of wrongs? Gracious," she added before he could speak, "how intensely you make me see her!"
"If you see her," Strether dropped, "it's all that's necessary."
She really seemed to hold her in view. "I feel that. She is, in spite of everything, handsome."
This at least enlivened him. "What do you mean by everything?"
"Well, I mean you." With which she had one of her swift changes of ground. "You say the concern needs looking after; but doesn't Mrs. Newsome look after it?"
"So far as possible. She's wonderfully able, but it's not her affair, and her life's a good deal overcharged. She has many, many things."
"And you also?"
"Oh yes—I've many too, if you will."
