The Ambassadors by Henry James (read people like a book .TXT) 📕

very straight in the eyes, and he had never conveyed to him in so mute a manner so much kind confidence and so much good advice. Everything that was between them was again in his face, but matured and shelved and finally disposed of. “At any rate,” he added, “she’s coming now.”

Considering how many pieces had to fit themselves, it all fell, in Strether’s brain, into a close rapid order. He saw on the spot what had happened, and what probably would yet; and it was all funny enough. It was perhaps just this freedom of appreciation that wound him up to his flare of high spirits. “What is she coming for?⁠—to kill me?”

“She’s coming to be very very kind to you, and you must let me say that I greatly hope you’ll not be less so to herself.”

This was spoken by Waymarsh with much gravity of admonition, and as Strether stood there he knew he had but to make a movement to take the attitude of a man gracefully receiving a present. The present was that of the opportunity dear old Waymarsh had flattered himself he had divined in him the slight soreness of not having yet thoroughly enjoyed; so he had brought it to him thus, as on a little silver breakfast-tray, familiarly though delicately⁠—without oppressive pomp; and he was to bend and smile and acknowledge, was to take and use and be grateful. He was not⁠—that was the beauty of it⁠—to be asked to deflect too much from his dignity. No wonder the old boy bloomed in this bland air of his own distillation. Strether felt for a moment as if Sarah were actually walking up and down outside. Wasn’t she hanging about the porte-cochère while her friend thus summarily opened a way? Strether would meet her but to take it, and everything would be for the best in the best of possible worlds. He had never so much known what anyone meant as, in the light of this demonstration, he knew what Mrs. Newsome did. It had reached Waymarsh from Sarah, but it had reached Sarah from her mother, and there was no break in the chain by which it reached him. “Has anything particular happened,” he asked after a minute⁠—“so suddenly to determine her? Has she heard anything unexpected from home?”

Waymarsh, on this, it seemed to him, looked at him harder than ever. “ ‘Unexpected’?” He had a brief hesitation; then, however, he was firm. “We’re leaving Paris.”

“Leaving? That is sudden.”

Waymarsh showed a different opinion. “Less so than it may seem. The purpose of Mrs. Pocock’s visit is to explain to you in fact that it’s not.”

Strether didn’t at all know if he had really an advantage⁠—anything that would practically count as one; but he enjoyed for the moment⁠—as for the first time in his life⁠—the sense of so carrying it off. He wondered⁠—it was amusing⁠—if he felt as the impudent feel. “I shall take great pleasure, I assure you, in any explanation. I shall be delighted to receive Sarah.”

The sombre glow just darkened in his comrade’s eyes; but he was struck with the way it died out again. It was too mixed with another consciousness⁠—it was too smothered, as might be said, in flowers. He really for the time regretted it⁠—poor dear old sombre glow! Something straight and simple, something heavy and empty, had been eclipsed in its company; something by which he had best known his friend. Waymarsh wouldn’t be his friend, somehow, without the occasional ornament of the sacred rage, and the right to the sacred rage⁠—inestimably precious for Strether’s charity⁠—he also seemed in a manner, and at Mrs. Pocock’s elbow, to have forfeited. Strether remembered the occasion early in their stay when on that very spot he had come out with his earnest, his ominous “Quit it!”⁠—and, so remembering, felt it hang by a hair that he didn’t himself now utter the same note. Waymarsh was having a good time⁠—this was the truth that was embarrassing for him, and he was having it then and there, he was having it in Europe, he was having it under the very protection of circumstances of which he didn’t in the least approve; all of which placed him in a false position, with no issue possible⁠—none at least by the grand manner. It was practically in the manner of anyone⁠—it was all but in poor Strether’s own⁠—that instead of taking anything up he merely made the most of having to be himself explanatory. “I’m not leaving for the United States direct. Mr. and Mrs. Pocock and Miss Mamie are thinking of a little trip before their own return, and we’ve been talking for some days past of our joining forces. We’ve settled it that we do join and that we sail together the end of next month. But we start tomorrow for Switzerland. Mrs. Pocock wants some scenery. She hasn’t had much yet.”

He was brave in his way too, keeping nothing back, confessing all there was, and only leaving Strether to make certain connections. “Is what Mrs. Newsome had cabled her daughter an injunction to break off short?”

The grand manner indeed at this just raised its head a little. “I know nothing about Mrs. Newsome’s cables.”

Their eyes met on it with some intensity⁠—during the few seconds of which something happened quite out of proportion to the time. It happened that Strether, looking thus at his friend, didn’t take his answer for truth⁠—and that something more again occurred in consequence of that. Yes⁠—Waymarsh just did know about Mrs. Newsome’s cables: to what other end than that had they dined together at Bignon’s? Strether almost felt for the instant that it was to Mrs. Newsome herself the dinner had been given; and, for that matter, quite felt how she must have known about it and, as he might think, protected and consecrated it. He had a quick blurred view of daily cables, questions, answers, signals: clear enough was his vision of the expense that, when so wound up, the lady at home was prepared to incur. Vivid