“I haven’t the least idea!” They once more, in spite of this vagueness, exchanged a look—a look that was perhaps the longest yet. It seemed in fact, the next thing, to require to explain itself; which it did as it could. “I only feel what I’ve told you—that he has some reason.” Miss Gostrey’s imagination had taken its own flight. “Perhaps she’s _not_ a widow.” Strether seemed to accept the possibility with reserve. Still he accepted it. “Then that’s why the attachment—if it’s to her—is virtuous.” But she looked as if she scarce followed. “Why is it virtuous if—since she’s free—there’s nothing to impose on it any condition?” He laughed at her question. “Oh I perhaps don’t mean as virtuous as _that!_ Your idea is that it can be virtuous—in any sense worthy of the name—only if she’s _not_ free? But what does it become then,” he asked, “for _her?_” “Ah that’s another matter.” He said nothing for a moment, and she soon went on. “I dare say you’re right, at any rate, about Mr. Newsome’s little plan. He _has_ been trying you—has been reporting on you to these friends.” Strether meanwhile had had time to think more. “Then where’s his straightness?” “Well, as we say, it’s struggling up, breaking out, asserting itself as it can. We can be on the side, you see, of his straightness. We can help him. But he has made out,” said Miss Gostrey, “that you’ll do.” “Do for what?” “Why, for _them_—for _ces dames_. He has watched you, studied you, liked you—and recognised that _they_ must. It’s a great compliment to you, my dear man; for I’m sure they’re particular. You came out for a success. Well,” she gaily declared, “you’re having it!” He took it from her with momentary patience and then turned abruptly away. It was always convenient to him that there were so many fine things in her room to look at. But the examination of two or three of them appeared soon to have determined a speech that had little to do with them. “You don’t believe in it!” “In what?” “In the character of the attachment. In its innocence.” But she defended herself. “I don’t pretend to know anything about it. Everything’s possible. We must see.” “See?” he echoed with a groan. “Haven’t we seen enough?” “_I_ haven’t,” she smiled. “But do you suppose then little Bilham has lied?” “You must find out.” It made him almost turn pale. “Find out any _more?_” He had dropped on a sofa for dismay; but she seemed, as she stood over him, to have the last word. “Wasn’t what you came out for to find out _all?_” Book Fifth I