Strether’s mind echoed the question, but also again met it. “Perhaps it’s with the mother he’s on good terms.”
“As against the daughter?”
“Well, if she’s trying to persuade the daughter to consent to him, what could make him like the mother more? Only,” Strether threw out, “why shouldn’t the daughter consent to him?”
“Oh,” said Miss Gostrey, “mayn’t it be that every one else isn’t quite so struck with him as you?”
“Doesn’t regard him you mean as such an ‘eligible’ young man? Is that what I’ve come to?” he audibly and rather gravely sought to know. “However,” he went on, “his marriage is what his mother most desires—that is if it will help. And oughtn’t any marriage to help? They must want him”—he had already worked it out—“to be better off. Almost any girl he may marry will have a direct interest in his taking up his chances. It won’t suit her at least that he shall miss them.”
Miss Gostrey cast about. “No—you reason well! But of course on the other hand there’s always dear old Woollett itself.”
“Oh yes,” he mused—“there’s always dear old Woollett itself.”
She waited a moment. “The young lady mayn’t find herself able to swallow that quantity. She may think it’s paying too much; she may weigh one thing against another.”
Strether, ever restless in such debates, took a vague turn “It will all depend on who she is. That of course—the proved ability to deal with dear old Woollett, since I’m sure she does deal with it—is what makes so strongly for Mamie.”
“Mamie?”