Strether thought. “About _me?_ Ah that’s no equivalent. The equivalent would be Waymarsh’s himself serving me up—his remorseless analysis of me. And he’ll never do that”—he was sadly clear. “He’ll never remorselessly analyse me.” He quite held her with the authority of this. “He’ll never say a word to you about me.” She took it in; she did it justice; yet after an instant her reason, her restless irony, disposed of it. “Of course he won’t. For what do you take people, that they’re able to say words about anything, able remorselessly to analyse? There are not many like you and me. It will be only because he’s too stupid.” It stirred in her friend a sceptical echo which was at the same time the protest of the faith of years. “Waymarsh stupid?” “Compared with you.” Strether had still his eyes on the jeweller’s front, and he waited a moment to answer. “He’s a success of a kind that I haven’t approached.” “Do you mean he has made money?” “He makes it—to my belief. And I,” said Strether, “though with a back quite as bent, have never made anything. I’m a perfectly equipped failure.” He feared an instant she’d ask him if he meant he was poor; and he was glad she didn’t, for he really didn’t know to what the truth on this unpleasant point mightn’t have prompted her. She only, however, confirmed his assertion. “Thank goodness you’re a failure—it’s why I so distinguish you! Anything else to-day is too hideous. Look about you—look at the successes. Would you _be_ one, on your honour? Look, moreover,” she continued, “at me.” For a little accordingly their eyes met. “I see,” Strether returned. “You too are out of it.” “The superiority you discern in me,” she concurred, “announces my futility. If you knew,” she sighed, “the dreams of my youth! But our realities are what has brought us together. We’re beaten brothers in arms.” He smiled at her kindly enough, but he shook his head. “It doesn’t alter the fact that you’re expensive. You’ve cost me already—!” But he had hung fire. “Cost you what?” “Well, my past—in one great lump. But no matter,” he laughed: “I’ll pay with my last penny.” Her attention had unfortunately now been engaged by their comrade’s return, for Waymarsh met their view as he came out of his shop. “I hope he hasn’t paid,” she said, “with _his_ last; though I’m convinced he has been splendid, and has been so for you.” “Ah no—not that!” “Then for me?” “Quite as little.” Waymarsh was by this time near enough to show signs his friend could read, though he seemed to look almost carefully at nothing in particular. “Then for himself?” “For nobody. For nothing. For freedom.” “But what has freedom to do with it?” Strether’s answer was indirect. “To be as good as you and me. But different.” She had had time to take in their companion’s face; and with it, as such things were easy for her, she took in all. “Different—yes. But better!”