“Oh not a distinction”—she was mightily amused at his tone—“Mr. Bilham’s too good. But I think I may say a sufficiency. Yes, a sufficiency. Have you supposed strange things of me?”—and she fixed him again, through all her tortoise-shell, with the droll interest of it. “You _are_ all indeed wonderful. I should awfully disappoint you. I do take my stand on my sufficiency. But I know, I confess,” she went on, “strange people. I don’t know how it happens; I don’t do it on purpose; it seems to be my doom—as if I were always one of their habits: it’s wonderful! I dare say moreover,” she pursued with an interested gravity, “that I do, that we all do here, run too much to mere eye. But how can it be helped? We’re all looking at each other—and in the light of Paris one sees what things resemble. That’s what the light of Paris seems always to show. It’s the fault of the light of Paris—dear old light!” “Dear old Paris!” little Bilham echoed. “Everything, every one shows,” Miss Barrace went on. “But for what they really are?” Strether asked. “Oh I like your Boston ‘reallys’! But sometimes—yes.” “Dear old Paris then!” Strether resignedly sighed while for a moment they looked at each other. Then he broke out: “Does Madame de Vionnet do that? I mean really show for what she is?” Her answer was prompt. “She’s charming. She’s perfect.” “Then why did you a minute ago say ‘Oh, oh, oh!’ at her name?” She easily remembered. “Why just because—! She’s wonderful.” “Ah she too?”—Strether had almost a groan. But Miss Barrace had meanwhile perceived relief. “Why not put your question straight to the person who can answer it best?” “No,” said little Bilham; “don’t put any question; wait, rather—it will be much more fun—to judge for yourself. He has come to take you to her.” II