say?"
"Nothing. He practically ignores us—or spares us. He doesn't
write."
"I see. But there are all the same," she went on, "two quite
distinct things that—given the wonderful place he's in—may have
happened to him. One is that he may have got brutalised. The other
is that he may have got refined."
Strether stared—this WAS a novelty. "Refined?"
"Oh," she said quietly, "there ARE refinements."
The way of it made him, after looking at her, break into a
laugh. "YOU have them!"
"As one of the signs," she continued in the same tone, "they
constitute perhaps the worst."
He thought it over and his gravity returned. "Is it a refinement
not to answer his mother's letters?"
She appeared to have a scruple, but she brought it out. "Oh I
should say the greatest of all."
"Well," said Strether, "I'M quite content to let it, as one of
the signs, pass for the worst that I know he believes he can do
what he likes with me."
This appeared to strike her. "How do you know it?"
"Oh I'm sure of it. I feel it in my bones."
"Feel he CAN do it?"
"Feel that he believes he can. It may come to the same thing!"
Strether laughed.
She wouldn't, however, have this. "Nothing for you will ever
come to the same thing as anything else." And she understood what
she meant, it seemed, sufficiently to go straight on. "You say that
if he does break he'll come in for things at home?"
"Quite positively. He'll come in for a particular chance—a
chance that any properly constituted young man would jump at. The
business has so developed that an opening scarcely apparent three
years ago, but which his father's will took account of as in
certain conditions possible and which, under that will, attaches to
Chad's availing himself of it a large contingent advantage—this
opening, the conditions having come about, now simply awaits him.
His mother has kept it for him, holding out against strong
pressure, till the last possible moment. It requires, naturally, as
it carries with it a handsome 'part,' a large share in profits, his
being on the spot and making a big effort for a big result. That's
what I mean by his chance. If he misses it he comes in, as you say,
for nothing. And to see that he doesn't miss it is, in a word, what
I've come out for."
She let it all sink in. "What you've come out for then is simply
to render him an immense service."
Well, poor Strether was willing to take it so. "Ah if you
like."
"He stands, as they say, if you succeed with him, to gain—"
"Oh a lot of advantages." Strether had them clearly at his
fingers' ends.
"By which you mean of course a lot of money."
"Well, not only. I'm acting with a sense for him of other things
too. Consideration and comfort and security—the general safety of
being anchored by a strong chain. He wants, as I see him, to be
protected. Protected I mean from life."
"Ah voila!"—her thought fitted with a click. "From life. What
you REALLY want to get him home for is to marry him."
"Well, that's about the size of it."
"Of course," she said, "it's rudimentary. But to any one in
particular?"
He smiled at this, looking a little more conscious. "You get
everything out."
For a moment again their eyes met. "You put everything in!"
He acknowledged the tribute by telling her. "To Mamie
Pocock."
She wondered; then gravely, even exquisitely, as if to make the
oddity also fit: "His own niece?"
"Oh you must yourself find a name for the relation. His
brother-in-law's sister. Mrs. Jim's sister-in-law."
It seemed to have on Miss Gostrey a certain hardening effect.
"And who in the world's Mrs. Jim?"
"Chad's sister—who was Sarah Newsome. She's married—didn't I
mention it?—to Jim Pocock."
"Ah yes," she tacitly replied; but he had mentioned things—!
Then, however, with all the sound it could have, "Who in the
world's Jim Pocock?" she asked.
"Why Sally's husband. That's the only way we distinguish people
at Woollett," he good-humoredly explained.
"And is it a great distinction—being Sally's
"Nothing. He practically ignores us—or spares us. He doesn't
write."
"I see. But there are all the same," she went on, "two quite
distinct things that—given the wonderful place he's in—may have
happened to him. One is that he may have got brutalised. The other
is that he may have got refined."
Strether stared—this WAS a novelty. "Refined?"
"Oh," she said quietly, "there ARE refinements."
The way of it made him, after looking at her, break into a
laugh. "YOU have them!"
"As one of the signs," she continued in the same tone, "they
constitute perhaps the worst."
He thought it over and his gravity returned. "Is it a refinement
not to answer his mother's letters?"
She appeared to have a scruple, but she brought it out. "Oh I
should say the greatest of all."
"Well," said Strether, "I'M quite content to let it, as one of
the signs, pass for the worst that I know he believes he can do
what he likes with me."
This appeared to strike her. "How do you know it?"
"Oh I'm sure of it. I feel it in my bones."
"Feel he CAN do it?"
"Feel that he believes he can. It may come to the same thing!"
Strether laughed.
She wouldn't, however, have this. "Nothing for you will ever
come to the same thing as anything else." And she understood what
she meant, it seemed, sufficiently to go straight on. "You say that
if he does break he'll come in for things at home?"
"Quite positively. He'll come in for a particular chance—a
chance that any properly constituted young man would jump at. The
business has so developed that an opening scarcely apparent three
years ago, but which his father's will took account of as in
certain conditions possible and which, under that will, attaches to
Chad's availing himself of it a large contingent advantage—this
opening, the conditions having come about, now simply awaits him.
His mother has kept it for him, holding out against strong
pressure, till the last possible moment. It requires, naturally, as
it carries with it a handsome 'part,' a large share in profits, his
being on the spot and making a big effort for a big result. That's
what I mean by his chance. If he misses it he comes in, as you say,
for nothing. And to see that he doesn't miss it is, in a word, what
I've come out for."
She let it all sink in. "What you've come out for then is simply
to render him an immense service."
Well, poor Strether was willing to take it so. "Ah if you
like."
"He stands, as they say, if you succeed with him, to gain—"
"Oh a lot of advantages." Strether had them clearly at his
fingers' ends.
"By which you mean of course a lot of money."
"Well, not only. I'm acting with a sense for him of other things
too. Consideration and comfort and security—the general safety of
being anchored by a strong chain. He wants, as I see him, to be
protected. Protected I mean from life."
"Ah voila!"—her thought fitted with a click. "From life. What
you REALLY want to get him home for is to marry him."
"Well, that's about the size of it."
"Of course," she said, "it's rudimentary. But to any one in
particular?"
He smiled at this, looking a little more conscious. "You get
everything out."
For a moment again their eyes met. "You put everything in!"
He acknowledged the tribute by telling her. "To Mamie
Pocock."
She wondered; then gravely, even exquisitely, as if to make the
oddity also fit: "His own niece?"
"Oh you must yourself find a name for the relation. His
brother-in-law's sister. Mrs. Jim's sister-in-law."
It seemed to have on Miss Gostrey a certain hardening effect.
"And who in the world's Mrs. Jim?"
"Chad's sister—who was Sarah Newsome. She's married—didn't I
mention it?—to Jim Pocock."
"Ah yes," she tacitly replied; but he had mentioned things—!
Then, however, with all the sound it could have, "Who in the
world's Jim Pocock?" she asked.
"Why Sally's husband. That's the only way we distinguish people
at Woollett," he good-humoredly explained.
"And is it a great distinction—being Sally's
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