“It tells,” Maria asked, “the worst?”
“The worst.”
“But is the worst what he wants Sarah to know?”
“He doesn’t care for Sarah.”
At which Miss Gostrey’s eyebrows went up. “You mean she has already dished herself?”
Strether took a turn about; he had thought it out again and again before this, to the end; but the vista seemed each time longer. “He wants his good friend to know the best. I mean the measure of his attachment. She asked for a sign, and he thought of that one. There it is.”
“A concession to her jealousy?”
Strether pulled up. “Yes—call it that. Make it lurid—for that makes my problem richer.”
“Certainly, let us have it lurid—for I quite agree with you that we want none of our problems poor. But let us also have it clear. Can he, in the midst of such a preoccupation, or on the heels of it, have seriously cared for Jeanne?—cared, I mean, as a young man at liberty would have cared?”
Well, Strether had mastered it. “I think he can have thought it would be charming if he could care. It would be nicer.”