VIII
He found himself therefore saying with gaiety even to Fanny Assingham, for their common concerned glance at Eaton Square, the glance that was so markedly never, as it might have been, a glance at Portland Place: "What would our cari sposi have made of it here? what would they, you know, really?"— which overflow would have been reckless if already, and surprisingly perhaps even to himself, he hadn't got used to thinking of this friend as a person in whom the element of protest had of late been unmistakeably allayed. He exposed himself of course to her replying: "Ah if it would have been so bad for them how can it be so good for you?"—but, quite apart from the small sense the question would have had at the best, she appeared already to unite with him in confidence and cheer. He had as well his view—or at least a partial one—of the inner spring of this present comparative humility, which was all consistent with the retractation he had practically seen her make after Mr. Verver's last dinner. Without diplomatising to do so, with no effort to square her, none to bribe her to an attitude for which he would have had no use in her if it weren't sincere, he yet felt how he both held her and moved her by the felicity of his taking pity, all instinctively, on her just discernible depression. By just so much as he guessed that she felt herself, as the slang was, out of it, out of
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