His companion, with renewed mirth and the finest sense, between the puffs of her cigarette, of the drollery of things, appeared to find their conversation highly delightful. “Yes, it isn’t her shoulders.” “What then is it?” Strether earnestly enquired. “Why, it’s _she_—simply. It’s her mood. It’s her charm.” “Of course it’s her charm, but we’re speaking of the difference.” “Well,” Miss Barrace explained, “she’s just brilliant, as we used to say. That’s all. She’s various. She’s fifty women.” “Ah but only one”—Strether kept it clear—“at a time.” “Perhaps. But in fifty times—!” “Oh we shan’t come to that,” our friend declared; and the next moment he had moved in another direction. “Will you answer me a plain question? Will she ever divorce?” Miss Barrace looked at him through all her tortoise-shell. “Why should she?” It wasn’t what he had asked for, he signified; but he met it well enough. “To marry Chad.” “Why should she marry Chad?” “Because I’m convinced she’s very fond of him. She has done wonders for him.” “Well then, how could she do more? Marrying a man, or woman either,” Miss Barrace sagely went on, “is never the wonder for any Jack and Jill can bring _that_ off. The wonder is their doing such things without marrying.” Strether considered a moment this proposition. “You mean it’s so beautiful for our friends simply to go on so?” But whatever he said made her laugh. “Beautiful.” He nevertheless insisted. “And _that_ because it’s disinterested?” She was now, however, suddenly tired of the question. “Yes then—call it that. Besides, she’ll never divorce. Don’t, moreover,” she added, “believe everything you hear about her husband.” “He’s not then,” Strether asked, “a wretch?” “Oh yes. But charming.” “Do you know him?” “I’ve met him. He’s _bien aimable_.” “To every one but his wife?” “Oh for all I know, to her too—to any, to every woman. I hope you at any rate,” she pursued with a quick change, “appreciate the care I take of Mr. Waymarsh.” “Oh immensely.” But Strether was not yet in line. “At all events,” he roundly brought out, “the attachment’s an innocent one.” “Mine and his? Ah,” she laughed, “don’t rob it of _all_ interest!” “I mean our friend’s here—to the lady we’ve been speaking of.” That was what he had settled to as an indirect but none the less closely involved consequence of his impression of Jeanne. That was where he meant to stay. “It’s innocent,” he repeated—“I see the whole thing.”