“Because when you hate you want to triumph, and if she should get me neatly stuck there she would triumph.”
Strether followed afresh, but looking as he went. “Certainly—in a manner. But it would scarce be a triumph worth having if, once entangled, feeling her dislike and possibly conscious in time of a certain quantity of your own, you should on the spot make yourself unpleasant to her.”
“Ah,” said Chad, “she can bear me—could bear me at least at home. It’s my being there that would be her triumph. She hates me in Paris.”
“She hates in other words—”
“Yes, that’s it!”—Chad had quickly understood this understanding; which formed on the part of each as near an approach as they had yet made to naming Madame de Vionnet. The limitations of their distinctness didn’t, however, prevent its fairly lingering in the air that it was this lady Mrs. Pocock hated. It added one more touch moreover to their established recognition of the rare intimacy of Chad’s association with her. He had never yet more twitched away the last light veil from this phenomenon than in presenting himself as confounded and submerged in the feeling she had created at Woollett. “And I’ll tell you who hates me too,” he immediately went on.
Strether knew as immediately whom he meant, but with as prompt a protest. “Ah no! Mamie doesn’t hate—well,” he caught himself in time—“anybody at all. Mamie’s beautiful.”
Chad shook his head. “That’s just why I mind it. She certainly doesn’t like me.”
“How much do you mind it? What would you do for her?”
“Well, I’d like her if she’d like me. Really, really,” Chad declared.
It gave his companion a moment’s pause. “You asked me just now if I don’t, as you said, ‘care’ about a certain person. You rather tempt me therefore to put the question in my turn. Don’t you care about a certain other person?”