I hope you'll have a
lovely time in the Alps."
Waymarsh fairly looked up at him as from the foot of them. "I
don't know as I OUGHT really to go."
It was the conscience of Milrose in the very voice of Milrose, but,
oh it was feeble and flat! Strether suddenly felt quite ashamed for
him; he breathed a greater boldness. "LET yourself, on the
contrary, go--in all agreeable directions. These are precious
hours--at our age they mayn't recur. Don't have it to say to
yourself at Milrose, next winter, that you hadn't courage for
them." And then as his comrade queerly stared: "Live up to Mrs.
Pocock."
"Live up to her?"
"You're a great help to her."
Waymarsh looked at it as at one of the uncomfortable things that
were certainly true and that it was yet ironical to say. "It's
more then than you are."
"That's exactly your own chance and advantage. Besides," said
Strether, "I do in my way contribute. I know what I'm about."
Waymarsh had kept on his great panama, and, as he now stood nearer
the door, his last look beneath the shade of it had turned again to
darkness and warning. "So do I! See here, Strether."
"I know what you're going to say. 'Quit this'?"
"Quit this!" But it lacked its old intensity; nothing of it
remained; it went out of the room with him.
Pages:
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563