“I haven’t laid them down,” Strether promptly returned. “Mr. Newsome—who knew extraordinarily well what he was about—laid them down ten years ago.”
Oh well, Waymarsh seemed to indicate with a shake of his mane, that didn’t matter! “You’re fierce for the boom anyway.”
His friend weighed a moment in silence the justice of the charge. “I can scarcely be called fierce, I think, when I so freely take my chance of the possibility, the danger, of being influenced in a sense counter to Mrs. Newsome’s own feelings.”
Waymarsh gave this proposition a long hard look. “I see. You’re afraid yourself of being squared. But you’re a humbug,” he added, “all the same.”
“Oh!” Strether quickly protested.
“Yes, you ask me for protection—which makes you very interesting; and then you won’t take it. You say you want to be squashed—”
“Ah but not so easily! Don’t you see,” Strether demanded “where my interest, as already shown you, lies? It lies in my not being squared. If I’m squared where’s my marriage? If I miss my errand I miss that; and if I miss that I miss everything—I’m nowhere.”
Waymarsh—but all relentlessly—took this in. “What do I care where you are if you’re spoiled?”
Their eyes met on it an instant. “Thank you awfully,” Strether at last said. “But don’t you think her judgement of that—?”
“Ought to content me? No.”