Do you mean she's as ill as she looks?"
Kate's face struck him as replying at first that his derisive speech deserved no satisfaction; then she appeared to yield to a need of her own—the need to make the point that "as ill as she looked" was what Milly scarce could be.
If she had been as ill as she looked she could scarce be a question with them, for her end would in that case be near.
She believed herself nevertheless—and Kate couldn't help believing her too—seriously menaced.
There was always the fact that they had been on the point of leaving town, the two ladies, and had suddenly been pulled up.
"We bade them good-bye—or all but—Aunt Maud and I, the night before Milly, popping so very oddly into the National Gallery for a farewell look, found you and me together.
They were then to get off a day or two later.
But they've not got off—they're not getting off.
When I see them—and I saw them this morning—they have showy reasons.
They do mean to go, but they've postponed it."
With which the girl brought out: "They've postponed it for you."
He protested so far as a man might without fatuity, since a protest was itself credulous; but Kate, as ever, understood herself.
"You've made Milly change her mind.
She wants not to miss you—though she wants also not to show she wants you; which is why, as I hinted a moment ago, she may consciously have hung back to-night.
She doesn't know when she may see you again—she doesn't know she ever may.
She doesn't see the future.
It has opened out before her in these last weeks as a dark confused thing."
Densher wondered.
"After the tremendous time you've all been telling me she has had?"
"That's it.
There's a shadow across it."
"The shadow, you consider, of some physical break-up?"
"Some physical break-down.
Nothing less.
She's scared.
She has so much to lose.
And she wants more."
"Ah well," said Densher with a sudden strange sense of discomfort, "couldn't one say to her that she can't have everything?"
"No—for one wouldn't want to.
She really," Kate went on, "has been somebody here.
Ask Aunt Maud—you may think me prejudiced," the girl oddly smiled. "Aunt Maud will tell you—the world's before her.
It has all come since you saw her, and it's a pity you've missed it, for it certainly would have amused you.
She has really been a perfect success—I mean of course so far as possible in the scrap of time—and she has taken it like a perfect angel.
If you can imagine an angel with a thumping bank-account you'll have the simplest expression of the kind of thing.
Her fortune's absolutely huge; Aunt Maud has had all the facts, or enough of them, in the last confidence, from
'Susie,' and Susie speaks by book.
Take them then, in the last confidence, from me.
There she is." Kate expressed above all what it most came to. "It's open to her to make, you see, the very greatest marriage.
I assure you we're not vulgar about her.
Her possibilities are quite plain."
Densher showed he neither disbelieved nor grudged them.
"But what good then on earth can I do her?"
Well, she had it ready.
"You can console her."
"And for what?"
"For all that, if she's stricken, she must see swept away.
I shouldn't care for her if she hadn't so much," Kate very simply said.
And then as it made him laugh not quite happily: "I shouldn't trouble about her if there were one thing she did have." The girl spoke indeed with a noble compassion. "She has nothing."
"Not all the young dukes?"
"Well we must see—see if anything can come of them.