He had got up with his last words and gathered in his hat and gloves. “I don’t know; I’m watching. I’m studying the case, as it were—and I dare say I shall be able to tell you.” She wondered. “Is it a case?” “Yes—I think so. At any rate I shall see.’ “But haven’t you known her before?” “Yes,” he smiled—“but somehow at home she wasn’t a case. She has become one since.” It was as if he made it out for himself. “She has become one here.” “So very very soon?” He measured it, laughing. “Not sooner than I did.” “And you became one—?” “Very very soon. The day I arrived.” Her intelligent eyes showed her thought of it. “Ah but the day you arrived you met Maria. Whom has Miss Pocock met?” He paused again, but he brought it out. “Hasn’t she met Chad?” “Certainly—but not for the first time. He’s an old friend.” At which Strether had a slow amused significant headshake that made her go on: “You mean that for _her_ at least he’s a new person—that she sees him as different?” “She sees him as different.” “And how does she see him?” Strether gave it up. “How can one tell how a deep little girl sees a deep young man?” “Is every one so deep? Is she too?” “So it strikes me deeper than I thought. But wait a little—between us we’ll make it out. You’ll judge for that matter yourself.” Madame de Vionnet looked for the moment fairly bent on the chance. “Then she _will_ come with her?—I mean Mamie with Mrs. Pocock?” “Certainly. Her curiosity, if nothing else, will in any case work that. But leave it all to Chad.” “Ah,” wailed Madame de Vionnet, turning away a little wearily, “the things I leave to Chad!” The tone of it made him look at her with a kindness that showed his vision of her suspense. But he fell back on his confidence. “Oh well—trust him. Trust him all the way.” He had indeed no sooner so spoken than the queer displacement of his point of view appeared again to come up for him in the very sound, which drew from him a short laugh, immediately checked. He became still more advisory. “When they do come give them plenty of Miss Jeanne. Let Mamie see her well.” She looked for a moment as if she placed them face to face. “For Mamie to hate her?” He had another of his corrective headshakes. “Mamie won’t. Trust _them_.” She looked at him hard, and then as if it were what she must always come back to: “It’s _you_ I trust. But I was sincere,” she said, “at the hotel. I did, I do, want my child—” “Well?”—Strether waited with deference while she appeared to hesitate as to how to put it. “Well, to do what she can for me.” Strether for a little met her eyes on it; after which something that might have been unexpected to her came from him. “Poor little duck!” Not more expected for himself indeed might well have been her echo of it. “Poor little duck! But she immensely wants herself,” she said, “to see our friend’s cousin.” “Is that what she thinks her?” “It’s what we call the young lady.”