Waymarsh showed a different opinion. “Less so than it may seem. The purpose of Mrs. Pocock’s visit is to explain to you in fact that it’s _not_.” Strether didn’t at all know if he had really an advantage—anything that would practically count as one; but he enjoyed for the moment—as for the first time in his life—the sense of so carrying it off. He wondered—it was amusing—if he felt as the impudent feel. “I shall take great pleasure, I assure you, in any explanation. I shall be delighted to receive Sarah.” The sombre glow just darkened in his comrade’s eyes; but he was struck with the way it died out again. It was too mixed with another consciousness—it was too smothered, as might be said, in flowers. He really for the time regretted it—poor dear old sombre glow! Something straight and simple, something heavy and empty, had been eclipsed in its company; something by which he had best known his friend. Waymarsh wouldn’t _be_ his friend, somehow, without the occasional ornament of the sacred rage, and the right to the sacred rage—inestimably precious for Strether’s charity—he also seemed in a manner, and at Mrs. Pocock’s elbow, to have forfeited. Strether remembered the occasion early in their stay when on that very spot he had come out with his earnest, his ominous “Quit it!”—and, so remembering, felt it hang by a hair that he didn’t himself now utter the same note. Waymarsh was having a good time—this was the truth that was embarrassing for him, and he was having it then and there, he was having it in Europe, he was having it under the very protection of circumstances of which he didn’t in the least approve; all of which placed him in a false position, with no issue possible—none at least by the grand manner. It was practically in the manner of any one—it was all but in poor Strether’s own—that instead of taking anything up he merely made the most of having to be himself explanatory. “I’m not leaving for the United States direct. Mr. and Mrs. Pocock and Miss Mamie are thinking of a little trip before their own return, and we’ve been talking for some days past of our joining forces. We’ve settled it that we do join and that we sail together the end of next month. But we start to-morrow for Switzerland. Mrs. Pocock wants some scenery. She hasn’t had much yet.” He was brave in his way too, keeping nothing back, confessing all there was, and only leaving Strether to make certain connexions. “Is what Mrs. Newsome had cabled her daughter an injunction to break off short?” The grand manner indeed at this just raised its head a little. “I know nothing about Mrs. Newsome’s cables.”