"To Switzerland with the party?"
"For Jim—and for symmetry.
If it had been workable moreover for a fortnight she'd have gone.
She's ready"—he followed up his renewed vision of her—"for anything."
Miss Gostrey went with him a minute.
"She's too perfect!"
"She WILL, I think," he pursued, "go to-night to the station."
"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 free, free gaiety, that may well softly bewilder Mr. Pocock."
It kept her so before him that his companion had after an instant a friendly comment.
"As in short it has softly bewildered a saner man.
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 Madame 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.
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 a sudden a still sharper sense than he would have expected of desiring not to lose her.
"I want you here."
She took it as if the words were all she had wished; as if they brought her, gave her something that was the compensation of her case.
"Thank you," she simply answered. And then as he looked at her a little harder, "Thank you very much," she repeated.
It had broken as with a slight arrest into the current of their talk, and it held him a moment longer.
"Why, two months, or whatever the time was, ago, did you so suddenly dash off?
The reason you afterwards gave me for having kept away three weeks wasn't the real one."
She recalled. "I never supposed you believed it was.
Yet," she continued, "if you didn't guess it that was just what helped you."
He looked away from her on this; he indulged, so far as space permitted, in one of his slow absences.
"I've often thought of it, but never to feel that I could guess it.