She seemed to deny a little, on the young man’s behalf, by the rise of her eyebrows, an intention of any process at all inconsiderate. “You must know how grieved he’d be if you were to lose anything. He believes you can keep his mother patient.” Strether wondered with his eyes on her. “I see. _That’s_ then what you really want of me. And how am I to do it? Perhaps you’ll tell me that.” “Simply tell her the truth.” “And what do you call the truth?” “Well, _any_ truth—about us all—that you see yourself. I leave it to you.” “Thank you very much. I like,” Strether laughed with a slight harshness, “the way you leave things!” But she insisted kindly, gently, as if it wasn’t so bad. “Be perfectly honest. Tell her all.” “All?” he oddly echoed. “Tell her the simple truth,” Madame de Vionnet again pleaded. “But what _is_ the simple truth? The simple truth is exactly what I’m trying to discover.” She looked about a while, but presently she came back to him. “Tell her, fully and clearly, about _us_.” Strether meanwhile had been staring. “You and your daughter?” “Yes—little Jeanne and me. Tell her,” she just slightly quavered, “you like us.” “And what good will that do me? Or rather”—he caught himself up—“what good will it do _you?_” She looked graver. “None, you believe, really?” Strether debated. “She didn’t send me out to ‘like’ you.” “Oh,” she charmingly contended, “she sent you out to face the facts.” He admitted after an instant that there was something in that. “But how can I face them till I know what they are? Do you want him,” he then braced himself to ask, “to marry your daughter?” She gave a headshake as noble as it was prompt. “No—not that.” “And he really doesn’t want to himself?” She repeated the movement, but now with a strange light in her face. “He likes her too much.” Strether wondered. “To be willing to consider, you mean, the question of taking her to America?” “To be willing to do anything with her but be immensely kind and nice—really tender of her. We watch over her, and you must help us. You must see her again.” Strether felt awkward. “Ah with pleasure—she’s so remarkably attractive.” The mother’s eagerness with which Madame de Vionnet jumped at this was to come back to him later as beautiful in its grace. “The dear thing _did_ please you?” Then as he met it with the largest “Oh!” of enthusiasm: “She’s perfect. She’s my joy.” “Well, I’m sure that—if one were near her and saw more of her—she’d be mine.” “Then,” said Madame de Vionnet, “tell Mrs. Newsome that!” He wondered the more. “What good will that do you?” As she appeared unable at once to say, however, he brought out something else. “Is your daughter in love with our friend?” “Ah,” she rather startlingly answered, “I wish you’d find out!” He showed his surprise. “I? A stranger?” “Oh you won’t be a stranger—presently. You shall see her quite, I assure you, as if you weren’t.”