Strether, at his glass, finished dressing; consulting that witness moreover on this last opinion. _Was_ he looking preternaturally fit? There was something in it perhaps for Chad’s wonderful eye, but he had felt himself for hours rather in pieces. Such a judgement, however, was after all but a contribution to his resolve; it testified unwittingly to his wisdom. He was still firmer, apparently—since it shone in him as a light—than he had flattered himself. His firmness indeed was slightly compromised, as he faced about to his friend, by the way this very personage looked—though the case would of course have been worse hadn’t the secret of personal magnificence been at every hour Chad’s unfailing possession. There he was in all the pleasant morning freshness of it—strong and sleek and gay, easy and fragrant and fathomless, with happy health in his colour, and pleasant silver in his thick young hair, and the right word for everything on the lips that his clear brownness caused to show as red. He had never struck Strether as personally such a success; it was as if now, for his definite surrender, he had gathered himself vividly together. This, sharply and rather strangely, was the form in which he was to be presented to Woollett. Our friend took him in again—he was always taking him in and yet finding that parts of him still remained out; though even thus his image showed through a mist of other things. “I’ve had a cable,” Strether said, “from your mother.” “I dare say, my dear man. I hope she’s well.” Strether hesitated. “No—she’s not well, I’m sorry to have to tell you.” “Ah,” said Chad, “I must have had the instinct of it. All the more reason then that we should start straight off.” Strether had now got together hat, gloves and stick, but Chad had dropped on the sofa as if to show where he wished to make his point. He kept observing his companion’s things; he might have been judging how quickly they could be packed. He might even have wished to hint that he’d send his own servant to assist. “What do you mean,” Strether enquired, “by ‘straight off’?” “Oh by one of next week’s boats. Everything at this season goes out so light that berths will be easy anywhere.” Strether had in his hand his telegram, which he had kept there after attaching his watch, and he now offered it to Chad, who, however, with an odd movement, declined to take it. “Thanks, I’d rather not. Your correspondence with Mother’s your own affair. I’m only _with_ you both on it, whatever it is.” Strether, at this, while their eyes met, slowly folded the missive and put it in his pocket; after which, before he had spoken again, Chad broke fresh ground. “Has Miss Gostrey come back?”