ve been thinking what I meant.«
    She kept it up. »And not, a little, what I did?«
    »No - that's not necessary. It will be enough if I know what I meant
myself.«
    »And don't you know,« she asked, »by this time?«
    Again he had a pause. »I think you ought to leave it to me. But how long,«
he added, »do you give me?«
    »It seems to me much more a question of how long you give me. Doesn't our
friend here himself, at any rate,« she went on, »perpetually make me present to
you?«
    »Not,« Strether replied, »by ever speaking of you to me.«
    »He never does that?«
    »Never.«
    She considered, and, if the fact was disconcerting to her, effectually
concealed it. The next minute indeed she had recovered. »No, he wouldn't. But do
you need that?«
    Her emphasis was wonderful, and though his eyes had been wandering he looked
at her longer now. »I see what you mean.«
    »Of course you see what I mean.«
    Her triumph was gentle, and she really had tones to make justice weep. »I've
before me what he owes you.«
    »Admit then that that's something,« she said, yet still with the same
discretion in her pride.
    He took in this note but went straight on. »You've made of him what I see,
but what I don't see is how in the world you've done it.«
    »Ah that's another question!« she smiled. »The point is of what use is your
declining to know me when to know Mr. Newsome - as you do me the honour to find
him - is just to know me.«
    »I see,« he mused, still with his eyes on her. »I shouldn't have met you
to-night.«
    She raised and dropped her linked hands. »It doesn't matter. If I trust you
why can't you a little trust me too? And why can't you also,« she asked in
another tone, »trust yourself?« But she gave him no time to reply. »Oh I shall
be so easy for you! And I'm glad at any rate you've seen my child.«
    »I'm
