He felt just now that her good-natured irony did bear on something, and it troubled him a little that she wouldn't be more explicit only assuring him, with the pleasure of observation so visible in her, that she wouldn't tell him more for the world.
He could take refuge but in asking her what she had done with Waymarsh, though it must be added that he felt himself a little on the way to a clue after she had answered that this personage was, in the other room, engaged in conversation with Madame de Vionnet.
He stared a moment at the image of such a conjunction; then, for Miss Barrace's benefit, he wondered.
"Is she too then under the charm—?"
"No, not a bit"—Miss Barrace was prompt.
"She makes nothing of him. She's bored. She won't help you with him."
"Oh," Strether laughed, "she can't do everything.
"Of course not—wonderful as she is.
Besides, he makes nothing of HER.
She won't take him from me—though she wouldn't, no doubt, having other affairs in hand, even if she could.
I've never," said Miss Barrace, "seen her fail with any one before.
And to-night, when she's so magnificent, it would seem to her strange—if she minded.
So at any rate I have him all.
Je suis tranquille!"
Strether understood, so far as that went; but he was feeling for his clue.
"She strikes you to-night as particularly magnificent?"
"Surely.
Almost as I've never seen her.
Doesn't she you?
Why it's FOR you."
He persisted in his candour. "'For' me—?"
"Oh, oh, oh!" cried Miss Barrace, who persisted in the opposite of that quality.
"Well," he acutely admitted, "she IS different. She's gay."
"She's gay!" Miss Barrace laughed.
"And she has beautiful shoulders—though there's nothing different in that."
"No," said Strether, "one was sure of her shoulders.
It isn't her shoulders."
His companion, with renewed mirth and the finest sense, between the puffs of her cigarette, of the drollery of things, appeared to find their conversation highly delightful.
"Yes, it isn't her shoulders ."
"What then is it?" Strether earnestly enquired.
"Why, it's SHE—simply.
It's her mood.
It's her charm."
"Of course it's her charm, but we're speaking of the difference."
"Well," Miss Barrace explained, "she's just brilliant, as we used to say.
That's all.
She's various. She's fifty women."
"Ah but only one"—Strether kept it clear—"at a time."
"Perhaps.
But in fifty times—!"
"Oh we shan't come to that," our friend declared; and the next moment he had moved in another direction.
"Will you answer me a plain question?
Will she ever divorce?"
Miss Barrace looked at him through all her tortoise-shell.
"Why should she?"
It wasn't what he had asked for, he signified; but he met it well enough.
"To marry Chad."
"Why should she marry Chad?"
"Because I'm convinced she's very fond of him.
She has done wonders for him."