“She’s certainly immense. I mean she’s the real thing. I believe the pale pink petals are folded up there for some wondrous efflorescence in time; to open, that is, to some great golden sun. _I’m_ unfortunately but a small farthing candle. What chance in such a field for a poor little painter-man?” “Oh you’re good enough,” Strether threw out. “Certainly I’m good enough. We’re good enough, I consider, _nous autres_, for anything. But she’s _too_ good. There’s the difference. They wouldn’t look at me.” Strether, lounging on his divan and still charmed by the young girl, whose eyes had consciously strayed to him, he fancied, with a vague smile—Strether, enjoying the whole occasion as with dormant pulses at last awake and in spite of new material thrust upon him, thought over his companion’s words. “Whom do you mean by ‘they’? She and her mother?” “She and her mother. And she has a father too, who, whatever else he may be, certainly can’t be indifferent to the possibilities she represents. Besides, there’s Chad.” Strether was silent a little. “Ah but he doesn’t care for her—not, I mean, it appears, after all, in the sense I’m speaking of. He’s _not_ in love with her.” “No—but he’s her best friend; after her mother. He’s very fond of her. He has his ideas about what can be done for her.” “Well, it’s very strange!” Strether presently remarked with a sighing sense of fulness. “Very strange indeed. That’s just the beauty of it. Isn’t it very much the kind of beauty you had in mind,” little Bilham went on, “when you were so wonderful and so inspiring to me the other day? Didn’t you adjure me, in accents I shall never forget, to see, while I’ve a chance, everything I can?—and _really_ to see, for it must have been that only you meant. Well, you did me no end of good, and I’m doing my best. I _do_ make it out a situation.” “So do I!” Strether went on after a moment. But he had the next minute an inconsequent question. “How comes Chad so mixed up, anyway?” “Ah, ah, ah!”—and little Bilham fell back on his cushions. It reminded our friend of Miss Barrace, and he felt again the brush of his sense of moving in a maze of mystic closed allusions. Yet he kept hold of his thread. “Of course I understand really; only the general transformation makes me occasionally gasp. Chad with such a voice in the settlement of the future of a little countess—no,” he declared, “it takes more time! You say moreover,” he resumed, “that we’re inevitably, people like you and me, out of the running. The curious fact remains that Chad himself isn’t. The situation doesn’t make for it, but in a different one he could have her if he would.” “Yes, but that’s only because he’s rich and because there’s a possibility of his being richer. They won’t think of anything but a great name or a great fortune.” “Well,” said Strether, “he’ll have no great fortune on _these_ lines. He must stir his stumps.” “Is that,” little Bilham enquired, “what you were saying to Madame de Vionnet?”