Waymarsh waited a little. “Too private to mention?”
“No, not too private—for you. Only rather complicated.”
“Well,” said Waymarsh, who had waited again, “I may lose my mind over here, but I don’t know as I’ve done so yet.”
“Oh you shall have the whole thing. But not tonight.”
Waymarsh seemed to sit stiffer and to hold his elbows tighter. “Why not—if I can’t sleep?”
“Because, my dear man, I can!”
“Then where’s your prostration?”
“Just in that—that I can put in eight hours.” And Strether brought it out that if Waymarsh didn’t “gain” it was because he didn’t go to bed: the result of which was, in its order, that, to do the latter justice, he permitted his friend to insist on his really getting settled. Strether, with a kind coercive hand for it, assisted him to this consummation, and again found his own part in their relation auspiciously enlarged by the smaller touches of lowering the lamp and seeing to a sufficiency of blanket. It somehow ministered for him to indulgence to feel Waymarsh, who looked unnaturally big and black in bed, as much tucked in as a patient in a hospital and, with his covering up to his chin, as much simplified by it. He hovered in vague pity, to be brief, while his companion challenged him out of the bedclothes. “Is she really after you? Is that what’s behind?”
Strether felt an uneasiness at the direction taken by his companion’s insight, but he played a little at uncertainty. “Behind my coming out?”
“Behind your prostration or whatever. It’s generally felt, you know, that she follows you up pretty close.”