Strether, for a little, appeared to think of it. “If you talk of torments you don’t diminish mine!” he then broke out. The next moment he was on his feet with a question. “He ought to marry whom?”
Little Bilham rose more slowly. “Well, some one he can—some thoroughly nice girl.”
Strether’s eyes, as they stood together, turned again to Jeanne. “Do you mean her?”
His friend made a sudden strange face. “After being in love with her mother? No.”
“But isn’t it exactly your idea that he isn’t in love with her mother?”
His friend once more had a pause. “Well, he isn’t at any rate in love with Jeanne.”
“I dare say not.”
“How can he be with any other woman?”
“Oh that I admit. But being in love isn’t, you know, here”—little Bilham spoke in friendly reminder—“thought necessary, in strictness, for marriage.”
“And what torment—to call a torment—can there ever possibly be with a woman like that?” As if from the interest of his own question Strether had gone on without hearing. “Is it for her to have turned a man out so wonderfully, too, only for somebody else?” He appeared to make a point of this, and little Bilham looked at him now. “When it’s for each other that people give things up they don’t miss them.” Then he threw off as with an extravagance of which he was conscious: “Let them face the future together!”