There was finally something in his felicity almost embarrassing and oppressive—Strether had begun to fidget under it for the open air and the erect posture. He had signed to the waiter that he wished to pay, and this transaction took some moments, during which he thoroughly felt, while he put down money and pretended—it was quite hollow—to estimate change, that Chad’s higher spirit, his youth, his practice, his paganism, his felicity, his assurance, his impudence, whatever it might be, had consciously scored a success. Well, that was all right so far as it went; his sense of the thing in question covered our friend for a minute like a veil through which—as if he had been muffled—he heard his interlocutor ask him if he mightn’t take him over about five. “Over” was over the river, and over the river was where Madame de Vionnet lived, and five was that very afternoon. They got at last out of the place—got out before he answered. He lighted, in the street, a cigarette, which again gave him more time. But it was already sharp for him that there was no use in time. “What does she propose to do to me?” he had presently demanded. Chad had no delays. “Are you afraid of her?” “Oh immensely. Don’t you see it?” “Well,” said Chad, “she won’t do anything worse to you than make you like her.” “It’s just of that I’m afraid.” “Then it’s not fair to me.” Strether cast about. “It’s fair to your mother.” “Oh,” said Chad, “are you afraid of _her?_” “Scarcely less. Or perhaps even more. But is this lady against your interests at home?” Strether went on. “Not directly, no doubt; but she’s greatly in favour of them here.” “And what—‘here’—does she consider them to be?” “Well, good relations!” “With herself?” “With herself.” “And what is it that makes them so good?” “What? Well, that’s exactly what you’ll make out if you’ll only go, as I’m supplicating you, to see her.” Strether stared at him with a little of the wanness, no doubt, that the vision of more to “make out” could scarce help producing. “I mean _how_ good are they?” “Oh awfully good.” Again Strether had faltered, but it was brief. It was all very well, but there was nothing now he wouldn’t risk. “Excuse me, but I must really—as I began by telling you—know where I am. Is she bad?” “‘Bad’?”—Chad echoed it, but without a shock. “Is that what’s implied—?” “When relations are good?” Strether felt a little silly, and was even conscious of a foolish laugh, at having it imposed on him to have appeared to speak so. What indeed was he talking about? His stare had relaxed; he looked now all round him. But something in him brought him back, though he still didn’t know quite how to turn it. The two or three ways he thought of, and one of them in particular, were, even with scruples dismissed, too ugly. He none the less at last found something. “Is her life without reproach?”