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Updated: May 8, 2025
Waymarsh's dry bare humour as it gave itself to be taken gloomed out to demand justice. "Well, if you talk of Miss Barrace I've MY chance too," it appeared stiffly to nod, and it granted that it was giving him away, but struggled to add that it did so only to save him.
It's a detail, but it's as if there were something something very good TO sniff." Waymarsh's face had shown his friend an attention apparently so remote that the latter was slightly surprised to find it at this point abreast with him. "Do you mean a smell? What of?" "A charming scent. But I don't know." Waymarsh gave an inferential grunt. "Does he live there with a woman?" "I don't know."
Five minutes later they were on their feet for her to take leave, standing together in an affability that had succeeded in surviving a further exchange of remarks; only with the emphasised appearance on Waymarsh's part of a tendency to revert, in a ruminating manner and as with an instinctive or a precautionary lightening of his tread, to an open window and his point of vantage.
"Then what would have been worse? For speaking or silent," she lightly wailed, "I somehow 'compromise. And it has never been any one but you." "That shows" he was magnanimous "that it's something not in you, but in one's self. It's MY fault." She was silent a little. "No, it's Mr. Waymarsh's. It's the fault of his having brought her."
It went somehow to and fro that what poor Waymarsh meant was "I told you so that you'd lose your immortal soul!" but it was also fairly explicit that Strether had his own challenge and that, since they must go to the bottom of things, he wasted no more virtue in watching Chad than Chad wasted in watching him. His dip for duty's sake where was it worse than Waymarsh's own?
He was patient with the dear man now and delighted to observe how unmistakeably he had put on flesh; he felt his own holiday so successfully large and free that he was full of allowances and charities in respect to those cabined and confined' his instinct toward a spirit so strapped down as Waymarsh's was to walk round it on tiptoe for fear of waking it up to a sense of losses by this time irretrievable.
He wondered, this pilgrim, if he had originally looked to Waymarsh so brave and well, so remarkably launched, as it was at present the latter's privilege to appear. He recalled that his friend had remarked to him even at Chester that his aspect belied his plea of prostration; but there certainly couldn't have been, for an issue, an aspect less concerned than Waymarsh's with the menace of decay.
He had been on the point of echoing "'Here'? is THIS the artist-quarter?" but she had already disposed of the question with a wave of all her tortoise-shell and an easy "Bring him to ME!" He knew on the spot how little he should be able to bring him, for the very air was by this time, to his sense, thick and hot with poor Waymarsh's judgement of it.
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?"
Waymarsh's only proviso at the last had been that nobody should pay for him; but he found himself, as the occasion developed, paid for on a scale as to which Strether privately made out that he already nursed retribution.
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