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Kate confessedly described them with an excess of impatience; it was much of her charm for Densher that she gave in general that turn to her descriptions, partly as if to amuse him by free and humorous colour, partly and that charm was the greatest as if to work off, for her own relief, her constant perception of the incongruity of things.
Milly, in her palace hard by, lies stricken, she has "turned her face to the wall." The vision of hope which had supported her is at an end, not by reason of her mere mortal illness, but because of some other blow which has fallen. Susan knows what it is, and Densher is to learn.
"She's a dove," Kate went on, "and one somehow doesn't think of doves as bejewelled. Yet they suit her down to the ground." "Yes down to the ground is the word." Densher saw now how they suited her, but was perhaps still more aware of something intense in his companion's feeling about them. Milly was indeed a dove; this was the figure, though it most applied to her spirit.
"Then when are we to come?" It just pulled her friend up, for even while they talked at least it was one of the reasons she stood there suddenly, irrelevantly, in the light of her other identity, the identity she would have for Mr. Densher. This was always, from one instant to another, an incalculable light, which, though it might go off faster than it came on, necessarily disturbed.
She balanced an instant during which Densher might have just wondered if pure historic truth were to suffer a slight strain. But she dropped on the right side. "I haven't let it come to that. I've been too discouraging. Aunt Maud," she went on now as lucid as ever "considers, no doubt, that she has a pledge from him in respect to me; a pledge that would have been broken if Milly had accepted him.
Densher had gone off somewhere else in connection with his errand before her visit to New York, it had been also not undiscoverable that he had come back for a day or two later on, that is after her own second excursion that he had in fine reappeared on a single occasion on his way to the West: his way from Washington as she believed, though he was out of sight at the time of her joining her friend for their departure.
What Kate embraced altogether was indeed wonderful to-day for Densher, though he perhaps struck himself rather as getting it out of her piece by piece than as receiving it in a steady light. He had always felt, however, that the more he asked of her the more he found her prepared, as he imaged it, to hand out.
Eugenio resembled to that extent Sir Luke to the extent of the extraordinary things with which his facial habit was compatible. By the time, however, that Densher had taken from it all its possessor intended Sir Luke was free and with a hand out for farewell.
Strange enough in fact that he had had from her, about herself and, under the searching spell of the place, infinitely straight what no one else had had: neither Kate, nor Aunt Maud, nor Merton Densher, nor Susan Shepherd.
"Let us wait to arrange it," Kate presently replied, "till after you've seen her." "Do you call that adoring me?" Densher demanded. They were talking, for the time, with the strangest mixture of deliberation and directness, and nothing could have been more in the tone of it than the way she at last said: "You're afraid of her yourself." He gave a smile a trifle glassy.
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