Then, "A man in trouble MUST be possessed somehow of a woman," she said; "if she doesn't come in one way she comes in another."
"Why do you call me a man in trouble?"
"Ah because that's the way you strike me."
She spoke ever so gently and as if with all fear of wounding him while she sat partaking of his bounty. "AREn't you in trouble?"
He felt himself colour at the question, and then hated that—hated to pass for anything so idiotic as woundable.
Woundable by Chad's lady, in respect to whom he had come out with such a fund of indifference—was he already at that point?
Perversely, none the less, his pause gave a strange air of truth to her supposition; and what was he in fact but disconcerted at having struck her just in the way he had most dreamed of not doing?
"I'm not in trouble yet," he at last smiled.
"I'm not in trouble now."
"Well, I'm always so.
But that you sufficiently know."
She was a woman who, between courses, could be graceful with her elbows on the table.
It was a posture unknown to Mrs. Newsome, but it was easy for a femme du monde.
"Yes—I am 'now'!"
"There was a question you put to me," he presently returned, "the night of Chad's dinner.
I didn't answer it then, and it has been very handsome of you not to have sought an occasion for pressing me about it since."
She was instantly all there.
"Of course I know what you allude to.
I asked you what you had meant by saying, the day you came to see me, just before you left me, that you'd save me.
And you then said—at our friend's—that you'd have really to wait to see, for yourself, what you did mean."
"Yes, I asked for time," said Strether.
"And it sounds now, as you put it, like a very ridiculous speech."
"Oh!" she murmured—she was full of attenuation.
But she had another thought. "If it does sound ridiculous why do you deny that you're in trouble?"
"Ah if I were," he replied, "it wouldn't be the trouble of fearing ridicule.
I don't fear it."
"What then do you?"
"Nothing—now."
And he leaned back in his chair.
"I like your 'now'!" she laughed across at him.
"Well, it's precisely that it fully comes to me at present that I've kept you long enough.
I know by this time, at any rate, what I meant by my speech; and I really knew it the night of Chad's dinner."
"Then why didn't you tell me?"
"Because it was difficult at the moment.
I had already at that moment done something for you, in the sense of what I had said the day I went to see you; but I wasn't then sure of the importance I might represent this as having."
She was all eagerness.
"And you're sure now?"
"Yes; I see that, practically, I've done for you—had done for you when you put me your question—all that it's as yet possible to me to do.
I feel now," he went on, "that it may go further than I thought.
What I did after my visit to you," he explained, "was to write straight off to Mrs. Newsome about you, and I'm at last, from one day to the other, expecting her answer.
It's this answer that will represent, as I believe, the consequences."
Patient and beautiful was her interest.
"I see—the consequences of your speaking for me."
And she waited as if not to hustle him.
He acknowledged it by immediately going on.
"The question, you understand, was HOW I should save you.
Well, I'm trying it by thus letting her know that I consider you worth saving."
"I see—I see." Her eagerness broke through.
"How can I thank you enough?"
He couldn't tell her that, however, and she quickly pursued.