Miss Gostrey had a pause. “You mean she has fallen in love?”
“I mean she wonders if she hasn’t—and it serves all her purpose.”
“It has indeed,” Maria laughed, “served women’s purposes before!”
“Yes—for giving in. But I doubt if the idea—as an idea—has ever up to now answered so well for holding out. That’s her tribute to the ideal—we each have our own. It’s her romance—and it seems to me better on the whole than mine. To have it in Paris too,” he explained—“on this classic ground, in this charged infectious air, with so sudden an intensity: well, it’s more than she expected. She has had in short to recognise the breaking out for her of a real affinity—and with everything to enhance the drama.”
Miss Gostrey followed. “Jim for instance?”
“Jim. Jim hugely enhances. Jim was made to enhance. And then Mr. Waymarsh. It’s the crowning touch—it supplies the colour. He’s positively separated.”
“And she herself unfortunately isn’t—that supplies the colour too.” Miss Gostrey was all there. But somehow—! “Is he in love?”
Strether looked at her a long time; then looked all about the room; then came a little nearer. “Will you never tell any one in the world as long as ever you live?”
“Never.” It was charming.
“He thinks Sarah really is. But he has no fear,” Strether hastened to add.