That's how she knows you otherwise than as part and parcel of me.
She won't for a moment have allowed either to Mrs. Stringham or to Milly that I've in any way, as they say, distinguished you."
"And you don't suppose," said Densher, "that they must have made it out for themselves?"
"No, my dear, I don't; not even," Kate declared, "after Milly's so funnily bumping against us on Tuesday."
"She doesn't see from that—?"
"That you're, so to speak, mad about me.
Yes, she sees, no doubt, that you regard me with a complacent eye—for you show it, I think, always too much and too crudely.
But nothing beyond that.
I don't show it too much; I don't perhaps—to please you completely where others are concerned—show it enough."
"Can you show it or not as you like?" Densher demanded.
It pulled her up a little, but she came out resplendent.
"Not where you are concerned.
Beyond seeing that you're rather gone," she went on, "Milly only sees that I'm decently good to you."
"Very good indeed she must think it!"
"Very good indeed then.
She easily sees me," Kate smiled, "as very good indeed."
The young man brooded.
"But in a sense to take some explaining."
"Then I explain." She was really fine; it came back to her essential plea for her freedom of action and his beauty of trust. "I mean," she added, "I will explain."
"And what will I do?"
"Recognise the difference it must make if she thinks."
But here in truth Kate faltered.
It was his silence alone that, for the moment, took up her apparent meaning; and before he again spoke she had returned to remembrance and prudence.
They were now not to forget that, Aunt Maud's liberality having put them on their honour, they mustn't spoil their case by abusing it.
He must leave her in time; they should probably find it would help them.
But she came back to Milly too.
"Mind you go to see her."
Densher still, however, took up nothing of this.
"Then I may come again?"
"For Aunt Maud—as much as you like.
But we can't again," said Kate, "play her this trick.
I can't see you here alone."
"Then where?"
"Go to see Milly," she for all satisfaction repeated.
"And what good will that do me?"
"Try it and you'll see."
"You mean you'll manage to be there?" Densher asked. "Say you are, how will that give us privacy?"
"Try it—you'll see," the girl once more returned. "We must manage as we can."
"That's precisely what I feel.
It strikes me we might manage better." His idea of this was a thing that made him an instant hesitate; yet he brought it out with conviction. "Why won't you come to me?"
It was a question her troubled eyes seemed to tell him he was scarce generous in expecting her definitely to answer, and by looking to him to wait at least she appealed to something that she presently made him feel as his pity.
It was on that special shade of tenderness that he thus found himself thrown back; and while he asked of his spirit and of his flesh just what concession they could arrange she pressed him yet again on the subject of her singular remedy for their embarrassment.
It might have been irritating had she ever struck him as having in her mind a stupid corner.
"You'll see," she said, "the difference it will make."
Well, since she wasn't stupid she was intelligent; it was he who was stupid—the proof of which was that he would do what she liked.
But he made a last effort to understand, her allusion to the "difference" bringing him round to it.
He indeed caught at something subtle but strong even as he spoke.
"Is what you meant a moment ago that the difference will be in her being made to believe you hate me?"
Kate, however, had simply, for this gross way of putting it, one of her more marked shows of impatience; with which in fact she sharply closed their discussion.
He opened the door on a sign from her, and she accompanied him to the top of the stairs with an air of having so put their possibilities before him that questions were idle and doubts perverse.