"The good, he thinks, if he has patience—not too much—may be to come. He doesn't know what he has done to her. Only we, you see, do that."
He saw, but he wondered. "She kept from him—what she felt?"
"She was able—I'm sure of it—not to show anything. He dealt her his blow, and she took it without a sign." Mrs. Stringham, it was plain, spoke by book, and it brought into play again her appreciation of what she related. "She's magnificent."
Densher again gravely assented. "Magnificent!"
"And he," she went on, "is an idiot of idiots."
"An idiot of idiots." For a moment, on it all, on the stupid doom in it, they looked at each other. "Yet he's thought so awfully clever."
"So awfully—it's Maud Lowder's own view. And he was nice, in London," said Mrs. Stringham, "to me. One could almost pity him—he has had such a good conscience."
"That's exactly the inevitable ass."
"Yes, but it wasn't—I could see from the only few things she first told me—that he meant her the least harm. He intended none whatever."
"That's always the ass at his worst," Densher returned. "He only of course meant harm to me."