“Because, my dear man, I can!”
“Then where’s your prostration?”
“Just in that—that I can put in eight hours.” And Strether brought it out that if Waymarsh didn’t “gain” it was because he didn’t go to bed: the result of which was, in its order, that, to do the latter justice, he permitted his friend to insist on his really getting settled. Strether, with a kind coercive hand for it, assisted him to this consummation, and again found his own part in their relation auspiciously enlarged by the smaller touches of lowering the lamp and seeing to a sufficiency of blanket. It somehow ministered for him to indulgence to feel Waymarsh, who looked unnaturally big and black in bed, as much tucked in as a patient in a hospital and, with his covering up to his chin, as much simplified by it. He hovered in vague pity, to be brief, while his companion challenged him out of the bedclothes. “Is she really after you? Is that what’s behind?”
Strether felt an uneasiness at the direction taken by his companion’s insight, but he played a little at uncertainty. “Behind my coming out?”
“Behind your prostration or whatever. It’s generally felt, you know, that she follows you up pretty close.”
Strether’s candour was never very far off. “Oh it has occurred to you that I’m literally running away from Mrs. Newsome?”
“Well, I haven’t known but what you are. You’re a very attractive man, Strether. You’ve seen for yourself,” said Waymarsh, “what that lady downstairs makes of it. Unless indeed,” he rambled on with an effect between the ironic and the anxious, “it’s you who are after her. Is Mrs. Newsome over here?” He spoke as with a droll dread of her.
It made his friend—though rather dimly—smile. “Dear no; she’s safe, thank goodness—as I think I more and more feel—at home. She thought of coming, but she gave it up. I’ve come in a manner instead of her; and come to that extent—for you’re right in your inference—on her business. So you see there is plenty of connection.”
Waymarsh continued to see at least all there was. “Involving accordingly the particular one I’ve referred to?”
Strether took another turn about the room, giving a twitch to his companion’s blanket and finally gaining the door. His feeling was that of a nurse who had earned personal rest by having made everything straight. “Involving more things than I can think of breaking ground on now. But don’t be afraid—you shall have them from me: you’ll probably find yourself having quite as much of them as you can do with. I shall—if we keep together—very much depend on your impression of some of them.”
Waymarsh’s acknowledgement of this tribute was characteristically indirect. “You mean to say you don’t believe we will keep together?”
“I only glance at the danger,” Strether paternally said, “because when I hear you wail to go back I seem to see you open up such possibilities of folly.”
Waymarsh took it—silent a little—like a large snubbed child “What are you going to do with me?”
It was the very question Strether himself had put to Miss Gostrey, and he wondered if he had sounded like that. But he at least could be more definite. “I’m going to take you right down to London.”
“Oh I’ve been down to London!” Waymarsh more softly moaned. “I’ve no use, Strether, for anything down there.”
“Well,” said Strether, good-humouredly, “I guess you’ve some use for me.”
“So I’ve got to go?”
“Oh you’ve got to go further yet.”
“Well,” Waymarsh sighed, “do your damnedest! Only you will tell me before you lead me on all the way—?”
Our friend had again so lost himself, both for amusement and for contrition, in the wonder of whether he had made, in his own challenge that afternoon, such another figure, that he for an instant missed the thread. “Tell you—?”
“Why what you’ve got on hand.”
Strether hesitated. “Why it’s such a matter as that even if I positively wanted I shouldn’t be able to keep it from you.”
Waymarsh gloomily gazed. “What does that mean then but that your trip is just for her?”
“For Mrs. Newsome? Oh it certainly is, as I say. Very much.”
“Then why do you also say it’s for me?”
Strether, in impatience, violently played with his latch. “It’s simple enough. It’s for both of you.”
Waymarsh at last turned over with a groan. “Well, I won’t marry you!”
“Neither, when it comes to that—!” But the visitor had already laughed and escaped.
III
He had told Miss Gostrey he should probably take, for departure with Waymarsh, some afternoon train, and it thereupon in the morning appeared that this lady had made her own plan for an earlier one. She had breakfasted when Strether came into the coffee-room; but, Waymarsh not having yet emerged, he was in time to recall her to the terms of their understanding and to pronounce her discretion overdone. She was surely not to break away at the very moment she had created a want. He had met her as she rose from her little table in a window, where, with the morning papers beside her, she reminded him, as he let her know, of Major Pendennis breakfasting at his club—a compliment of which she professed a deep appreciation; and he detained her as pleadingly as if he had already—and notably under pressure of the visions of the night—learned to be unable to do without her. She must teach him at all events, before she went, to order breakfast as breakfast was ordered in Europe, and she must especially sustain him in the problem of ordering for Waymarsh. The latter had laid upon his friend, by desperate sounds through the door of his room, dreadful divined responsibilities in respect to beefsteak and oranges—responsibilities which Miss Gostrey took over with an alertness of action that matched her quick intelligence. She had before this weaned the expatriated from traditions compared with which the matutinal beefsteak was but the creature of an hour, and it was not for her, with some of her memories, to falter
