 with his eyes on her. »I see. That's then what you really
want of me. And how am I to do it? Perhaps you'll tell me that.«
    »Simply tell her the truth.«
    »And what do you call the truth?«
    »Well, any truth - about us all - that you see yourself. I leave it to you.«
    »Thank you very much. I like,« Strether laughed with a slight harshness,
»the way you leave things!«
    But she insisted kindly, gently, as if it wasn't so bad. »Be perfectly
honest. Tell her all.«
    »All?« he oddly echoed.
    »Tell her the simple truth,« Madame de Vionnet again pleaded.
    »But what is the simple truth? The simple truth is exactly what I'm trying
to discover.«
    She looked about a while, but presently she came back to him. »Tell her,
fully and clearly, about us.«
    Strether meanwhile had been staring. »You and your daughter?«
    »Yes - little Jeanne and me. Tell her,« she just slightly quavered, »you
like us.«
    »And what good will that do me? Or rather« - he caught himself up - »what
good will it do you?«
    She looked graver. »None, you believe, really?«
    Strether debated. »She didn't send me out to like you.«
    »Oh,« she charmingly contended, »she sent you out to face the facts.«
    He admitted after an instant that there was something in that. »But how can
I face them till I know what they are? Do you want him,« he then braced himself
to ask, »to marry your daughter?«
    She gave a headshake as noble as it was prompt. »No - not that.«
    »And he really doesn't want to himself?«
    She repeated the movement, but now with a strange light in her face. »He
likes her too much.«
    Strether wondered. »To be willing to consider, you mean, the question of
taking her to America?«
    »To be willing to do anything with her but be immensely kind and nice -
really tender of her. We watch over her, and you must help us. You must see her
again.«
    Strether felt awkward. »Ah with pleasure - she's so remarkably attractive.«
    The mother's eagerness with which Madame de Vionnet jumped at this
