"Well then, how could she do more?
Marrying a man, or woman either," Miss Barrace sagely went on, "is never the wonder for any Jack and Jill can bring THAT off.
The wonder is their doing such things without marrying."
Strether considered a moment this proposition.
"You mean it's so beautiful for our friends simply to go on so?"
But whatever he said made her laugh.
"Beautiful."
He nevertheless insisted.
"And THAT because it's disinterested?"
She was now, however, suddenly tired of the question.
"Yes then—call it that.
Besides, she'll never divorce.
Don't, moreover," she added, "believe everything you hear about her husband."
"He's not then," Strether asked, "a wretch?"
"Oh yes.
But charming."
"Do you know him?"
"I've met him.
He's bien aimable."
"To every one but his wife?"
"Oh for all I know, to her too—to any, to every woman.
I hope you at any rate," she pursued with a quick change, "appreciate the care I take of Mr. Waymarsh."
"Oh immensely."
But Strether was not yet in line.
"At all events," he roundly brought out, "the attachment's an innocent one."
"Mine and his?
Ah," she laughed, "don't rob it of ALL interest!"
"I mean our friend's here—to the lady we've been speaking of."
That was what he had settled to as an indirect but none the less closely involved consequence of his impression of Jeanne.
That was where he meant to stay.
"It's innocent," he repeated—"I see the whole thing."
Mystified by his abrupt declaration, she had glanced over at Gloriani as at the unnamed subject of his allusion, but the next moment she had understood; though indeed not before Strether had noticed her momentary mistake and wondered what might possibly be behind that too.
He already knew that the sculptor admired Madame de Vionnet; but did this admiration also represent an attachment of which the innocence was discussable?
He was moving verily in a strange air and on ground not of the firmest.
He looked hard for an instant at Miss Barrace, but she had already gone on.
"All right with Mr. Newsome?
Why of course she is!"—and she got gaily back to the question of her own good friend.
"I dare say you're surprised that I'm not worn out with all I see—it being so much!—of Sitting Bull.
But I'm not, you know—I don't mind him; I bear up, and we get on beautifully.
I'm very strange; I'm like that; and often I can't explain.
There are people who are supposed interesting or remarkable or whatever, and who bore me to death; and then there are others as to whom nobody can understand what anybody sees in them—in whom I see no end of things."
Then after she had smoked a moment, "He's touching, you know," she said.
"'Know'?" Strether echoed—"don't I, indeed?
We must move you almost to tears."
"Oh but I don't mean YOU!" she laughed.
"You ought to then, for the worst sign of all—as I must have it for you—is that you can't help me.
That's when a woman pities."
"Ah but I do help you!" she cheerfully insisted.
Again he looked at her hard, and then after a pause:
"No you don't!"