could have been finer, on this, than Waymarsh's sombre
glow. "HAVE you come out on purpose?"
"Well—very largely."
"I thought from the way you wrote there was something back of
it."
Strether hesitated. "Back of my desire to be with you?"
"Back of your prostration."
Strether, with a smile made more dim by a certain consciousness,
shook his head. "There are all the causes of it!"
"And no particular cause that seemed most to drive you?"
Our friend could at last conscientiously answer. "Yes. One.
There IS a matter that has had much to do with my coming out."
Waymarsh waited a little. "Too private to mention?"
"No, not too private—for YOU. Only rather complicated."
"Well," said Waymarsh, who had waited again, "I MAY lose my mind
over here, but I don't know as I've done so yet."
"Oh you shall have the whole thing. But not tonight."
Waymarsh seemed to sit stiffer and to hold his elbows tighter.
"Why not—if I can't sleep?"
"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
connexion."
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
glow. "HAVE you come out on purpose?"
"Well—very largely."
"I thought from the way you wrote there was something back of
it."
Strether hesitated. "Back of my desire to be with you?"
"Back of your prostration."
Strether, with a smile made more dim by a certain consciousness,
shook his head. "There are all the causes of it!"
"And no particular cause that seemed most to drive you?"
Our friend could at last conscientiously answer. "Yes. One.
There IS a matter that has had much to do with my coming out."
Waymarsh waited a little. "Too private to mention?"
"No, not too private—for YOU. Only rather complicated."
"Well," said Waymarsh, who had waited again, "I MAY lose my mind
over here, but I don't know as I've done so yet."
"Oh you shall have the whole thing. But not tonight."
Waymarsh seemed to sit stiffer and to hold his elbows tighter.
"Why not—if I can't sleep?"
"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
connexion."
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
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