He was as easy, clever Chad, with the great artist as with his obscure compatriot, and as easy with every one else as with either: this fell into its place for Strether and made almost a new light, giving him, as a concatenation, something more he could enjoy.
He liked Gloriani, but should never see him again; of that he was sufficiently sure.
Chad accordingly, who was wonderful with both of them, was a kind of link for hopeless fancy, an implication of possibilities—oh if everything had been different!
Strether noted at all events that he was thus on terms with illustrious spirits, and also that—yes, distinctly—he hadn't in the least swaggered about it.
Our friend hadn't come there only for this figure of Abel Newsome's son, but that presence threatened to affect the observant mind as positively central.
Gloriani indeed, remembering something and excusing himself, pursued Chad to speak to him, and Strether was left musing on many things.
One of them was the question of whether, since he had been tested, he had passed.
Did the artist drop him from having made out that he wouldn't do?
He really felt just to-day that he might do better than usual.
Hadn't he done well enough, so far as that went, in being exactly so dazzled? and in not having too, as he almost believed, wholly hidden from his host that he felt the latter's plummet?
Suddenly, across the garden, he saw little Bilham approach, and it was a part of the fit that was on him that as their eyes met he guessed also HIS knowledge.
If he had said to him on the instant what was uppermost he would have said: "HAVE I passed?—for of course I know one has to pass here."
Little Bilham would have reassured him, have told him that he exaggerated, and have adduced happily enough the argument of little Bilham's own very presence; which, in truth, he could see, was as easy a one as Gloriani's own or as Chad's.
He himself would perhaps then after a while cease to be frightened, would get the point of view for some of the faces—types tremendously alien, alien to Woollett—that he had already begun to take in.
Who were they all, the dispersed groups and couples, the ladies even more unlike those of Woollett than the gentlemen?—this was the enquiry that, when his young friend had greeted him, he did find himself making.
"Oh they're every one—all sorts and sizes; of course I mean within limits, though limits down perhaps rather more than limits up.
There are always artists—he's beautiful and inimitable to the cher confrere; and then gros bonnets of many kinds—ambassadors, cabinet ministers, bankers, generals, what do I know? even Jews.
Above all always some awfully nice women—and not too many; sometimes an actress, an artist, a great performer—but only when they're not monsters; and in particular the right femmes du monde.
You can fancy his history on that side—I believe it's fabulous: they NEVER give him up.
Yet he keeps them down: no one knows how he manages; it's too beautiful and bland.
Never too many—and a mighty good thing too; just a perfect choice.
But there are not in any way many bores; it has always been so; he has some secret. It's extraordinary.
And you don't find it out.
He's the same to every one.
He doesn't ask questions.'
"Ah doesn't he?" Strether laughed.
Bilham met it with all his candour. "How then should I be here?
"Oh for what you tell me. You're part of the perfect choice."
Well, the young man took in the scene.
"It seems rather good to-day."
Strether followed the direction of his eyes.
"Are they all, this time, femmes du monde?"
Little Bilham showed his competence. "Pretty well."
This was a category our friend had a feeling for; a light, romantic and mysterious, on the feminine element, in which he enjoyed for a little watching it.
"Are there any Poles?"
His companion considered. "I think I make out a 'Portuguee.'
But I've seen Turks."
Strether wondered, desiring justice.
"They seem—all the women—very harmonious."
"Oh in closer quarters they come out!"
And then, while Strether was aware of fearing closer quarters, though giving himself again to the harmonies, "Well," little Bilham went on, "it IS at the worst rather good, you know.
If you like it, you feel it, this way, that shows you're not in the least out But you always know things," he handsomely added, "immediately."
Strether liked it and felt it only too much; so
"I say, don't lay traps for me!" he rather helplessly murmured.
"Well," his companion returned, "he's wonderfully kind to us."
"To us Americans you mean?"
"Oh no—he doesn't know anything about THAT.
That's half the battle here—that you can never hear politics.
We don't talk them.
I mean to poor young wretches of all sorts.