“Happy?”—it appeared, with their various difficulties, to surprise her.
“Well—I seem to myself among them the only one who isn’t.”
She demurred. “With your constant tribute to the ideal?”
He had a laugh at his tribute to the ideal, but he explained after a moment his impression. “I mean they’re living. They’re rushing about. I’ve already had my rushing. I’m waiting.”
“But aren’t you,” she asked by way of cheer, “waiting with me?”
He looked at her in all kindness. “Yes—if it weren’t for that!”
“And you help me to wait,” she said. “However,” she went on, “I’ve really something for you that will help you to wait and which you shall have in a minute. Only there’s something more I want from you first. I revel in Sarah.”
“So do I. If it weren’t,” he again amusedly sighed, “for that—!”
“Well, you owe more to women than any man I ever saw. We do seem to keep you going. Yet Sarah, as I see her, must be great.”
“She is” Strether fully assented: “great! Whatever happens, she won’t, with these unforgettable days, have lived in vain.”