It kept her so before him that his companion had after an instant a friendly comment. “As in short it has softly bewildered a saner man. Are you really in love with her?” Maria threw off.
“It’s of no importance I should know,” he replied. “It matters so little—has nothing to do, practically, with either of us.”
“All the same”—Maria continued to smile—“they go, the five, as I understand you, and you and Madame de Vionnet stay.”
“Oh and Chad.” To which Strether added: “And you.”
“Ah ‘me’!”—she gave a small impatient wail again, in which something of the unreconciled seemed suddenly to break out. “I don’t stay, it somehow seems to me, much to my advantage. In the presence of all you cause to pass before me I’ve a tremendous sense of privation.”
Strether hesitated. “But your privation, your keeping out of everything, has been—hasn’t it?—by your own choice.”
“Oh yes; it has been necessary—that is it has been better for you. What I mean is only that I seem to have ceased to serve you.”
“How can you tell that?” he asked. “You don’t know how you serve me. When you cease—”
“Well?” she said as he dropped.
“Well, I’ll let you know. Be quiet till then.”