He gurgled his joy as they rolled through the happy streets; he
declared that his trip was a regular windfall, and that he wasn't
there, he was eager to remark, to hang back from anything: he
didn't know quite what Sally had come for, but HE had come for a
good time. Strether indulged him even while wondering if what Sally
wanted her brother to go back for was to become like her husband.
He trusted that a good time was to be, out and out, the programme
for all of them; and he assented liberally to Jim's proposal that,
disencumbered and irresponsible--his things were in the omnibus
with those of the others--they should take a further turn round
before going to the hotel. It wasn't for HIM to tackle Chad--it was
Sally's job; and as it would be like her, he felt, to open fire on
the spot, it wouldn't be amiss of them to hold off and give her
time. Strether, on his side, only asked to give her time; so he
jogged with his companion along boulevards and avenues, trying to
extract from meagre material some forecast of his catastrophe. He
was quick enough to see that Jim Pocock declined judgement, had
hovered quite round the outer edge of discussion and anxiety,
leaving all analysis of their question to the ladies alone and now
only feeling his way toward some small droll cynicism.
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