Chad’s urbanity fairly shamed him, and he was at this moment absolutely impatient to see the face Sarah Pocock would present to a sort of thing, as he synthetically phrased it to himself, with no adequate forecast of which, despite his admonitions, she would certainly arrive. “I’ve done this!”
“Well, this is all right. She likes,” Chad comfortably remarked, “to be liked.”
It gave his companion a moment’s thought. “And she’s sure Mrs. Pocock will—?”
“No, I say that for you. She likes your liking her; it’s so much, as it were,” Chad laughed, “to the good. However, she doesn’t despair of Sarah either, and is prepared, on her own side, to go all lengths.”
“In the way of appreciation?”
“Yes, and of everything else. In the way of general amiability, hospitality and welcome. She’s under arms,” Chad laughed again; “she’s prepared.”
Strether took it in; then as if an echo of Miss Barrace were in the air: “She’s wonderful.”
“You don’t begin to know how wonderful!”
There was a depth in it, to Strether’s ear, of confirmed luxury—almost a kind of unconscious insolence of proprietorship; but the effect of the glimpse was not at this moment to foster speculation: there was something so conclusive in so much graceful and generous assurance. It was in fact a fresh evocation; and the evocation had before many minutes another consequence. “Well, I shall see her oftener now. I shall see her as much as I like—by your leave; which is what I hitherto haven’t done.”
“It has been,” said Chad, but without reproach, “only your own fault. I tried to bring you together, and she, my dear fellow—I never saw her more charming to any man. But you’ve got your extraordinary ideas.”