"How much?"—Chad seemed to find it in fact difficult to say.
"How much."
"Why as much as you've made me.
I'd give anything to see her.
And you've left me," Chad went on, "in little enough doubt as to how much SHE wants it."
Strether thought a minute. "Well then if those things are really your motive catch the French steamer and sail to-morrow. Of course, when it comes to that, you're absolutely free to do as you choose. From the moment you can't hold yourself I can only accept your flight."
"I'll fly in a minute then," said Chad, "if you'll stay here."
"I'll stay here till the next steamer—then I'll follow you."
"And do you call that," Chad asked, "accepting my flight?"
"Certainly—it's the only thing to call it.
The only way to keep me here, accordingly," Strether explained, "is by staying yourself."
Chad took it in.
"All the more that I've really dished you, eh?"
"Dished me?" Strether echoed as inexpressively as possible.
"Why if she sends out the Pococks it will be that she doesn't trust you, and if she doesn't trust you, that bears upon—well, you know what."
Strether decided after a moment that he did know what, and in consonance with this he spoke.
"You see then all the more what you owe me."
"Well, if I do see, how can I pay?"
"By not deserting me.
By standing by me."
"Oh I say—!"
But Chad, as they went downstairs, clapped a firm hand, in the manner of a pledge, upon his shoulder.
They descended slowly together and had, in the court of the hotel, some further talk, of which the upshot was that they presently separated.
Chad Newsome departed, and Strether, left alone, looked about, superficially, for Waymarsh.
But Waymarsh hadn't yet, it appeared, come down, and our friend finally went forth without sight of him.
III
At four o'clock that afternoon he had still not seen him, but he was then, as to make up for this, engaged in talk about him with Miss Gostrey.
Strether had kept away from home all day, given himself up to the town and to his thoughts, wandered and mused, been at once restless and absorbed—and all with the present climax of a rich little welcome in the Quartier Marboeuf.
"Waymarsh has been, 'unbeknown' to me, I'm convinced"—for Miss Gostrey had enquired—"in communication with Woollett: the consequence of which was, last night, the loudest possible call for me."
"Do you mean a letter to bring you home?"
"No—a cable, which I have at this moment in my pocket: a
'Come back by the first ship.'"
Strether's hostess, it might have been made out, just escaped changing colour.
Reflexion arrived but in time and established a provisional serenity.
It was perhaps exactly this that enabled her to say with duplicity:
"And you're going—?"
"You almost deserve it when you abandon me so."
She shook her head as if this were not worth taking up.
"My absence has helped you—as I've only to look at you to see.
It was my calculation, and I'm justified.
You're not where you were.
And the thing," she smiled, "was for me not to be there either.
You can go of yourself."
"Oh but I feel to-day," he comfortably declared, "that I shall want you yet."
She took him all in again.
"Well, I promise you not again to leave you, but it will only be to follow you.
You've got your momentum and can toddle alone."
He intelligently accepted it. "Yes—I suppose I can toddle.
It's the sight of that in fact that has upset Waymarsh.
He can bear it—the way I strike him as going—no longer.