“Yes, she knows it. And is your idea,” Miss Gostrey asked, “that there was some other woman in London?”
“Yes. No. That is I have no ideas. I’m afraid of them. I’ve done with them.” And he put out his hand to her. “Good-bye.”
It brought her back to her unanswered question. “To what do you go home?”
“I don’t know. There will always be something.”
“To a great difference,” she said as she kept his hand.
“A great difference—no doubt. Yet I shall see what I can make of it.”
“Shall you make anything so good—?” But, as if remembering what Mrs. Newsome had done, it was as far as she went.
He had sufficiently understood. “So good as this place at this moment? So good as what you make of everything you touch?” He took a moment to say, for, really and truly, what stood about him there in her offer—which was as the offer of exquisite service, of lightened care, for the rest of his days—might well have tempted. It built him softly round, it roofed him warmly over, it rested, all so firm, on selection. And what ruled selection was beauty and knowledge. It was awkward, it was almost stupid, not to seem to prize such things; yet, none the less, so far as they made his opportunity they made it only for a moment. She’d moreover understand—she always understood.
That indeed might be, but meanwhile she was going on. “There’s nothing, you know, I wouldn’t do for you.”
“Oh yes—I know.”