There he is!« little Bilham echoed. »And it's really and truly she. I don't
understand either, even with my longer and closer opportunity. But I'm like
you,« he added; »I can admire and rejoice even when I'm a little in the dark.
You see I've watched it for some three years, and especially for this last. He
wasn't so bad before it as I seem to have made out that you think -«
    »Oh I don't think anything now!« Strether impatiently broke in: »that is but
what I do think! I mean that originally, for her to have cared for him -«
    »There must have been stuff in him? Oh yes, there was stuff indeed, and much
more of it than ever showed, I dare say, at home. Still, you know,« the young
man in all fairness developed, »there was room for her, and that's where she
came in. She saw her chance and took it. That's what strikes me as having been
so fine. But of course,« he wound up, »he liked her first.«
    »Naturally,« said Strether.
    »I mean that they first met somehow and somewhere - I believe in some
American house - and she, without in the least then intending it, made her
impression. Then with time and opportunity he made his; and after that she was
as bad as he.«
    Strether vaguely took it up. »As bad?«
    »She began, that is, to care - to care very much. Alone, and in her horrid
position, she found it, when once she had started, an interest. It was, it is,
an interest; and it did - it continues to do - a lot for herself as well. So she
still cares. She cares in fact,« said little Bilham thoughtfully, »more.«
    Strether's theory that it was none of his business was somehow not damaged
by the way he took this. »More, you mean, than he?« On which his companion
looked round at him, and now for an instant their eyes met. »More than he?« he
repeated.
    Little Bilham, for as long, hung fire. »Will you never tell any one?«
    Strether thought. »Whom should I tell?«
    »Why I supposed you reported regularly -«
    »To people at home?« - Strether took him up.
