“Oh I don’t know. One never does—does one?—beforehand. One can only judge on the facts. Yours are quite new to me; I’m really not in the least, as you see, in possession of them: so it will be awfully interesting to have them from you. If you’re satisfied, that’s all that’s required. I mean if you’re sure you _are_ sure: sure it won’t do.” “That he should lead such a life? Rather!” “Oh but I don’t know, you see, about his life; you’ve not told me about his life. She may be charming—his life!” “Charming?”—Strether stared before him. “She’s base, venal—out of the streets.” “I see. And _he_—?” “Chad, wretched boy?” “Of what type and temper is he?” she went on as Strether had lapsed. “Well—the obstinate.” It was as if for a moment he had been going to say more and had then controlled himself. That was scarce what she wished. “Do you like him?” This time he was prompt. “No. How _can_ I?” “Do you mean because of your being so saddled with him?” “I’m thinking of his mother,” said Strether after a moment. “He has darkened her admirable life.” He spoke with austerity. “He has worried her half to death.” “Oh that’s of course odious.” She had a pause as if for renewed emphasis of this truth, but it ended on another note. “Is her life very admirable?” “Extraordinarily.” There was so much in the tone that Miss Gostrey had to devote another pause to the appreciation of it. “And has he only _her?_ I don’t mean the bad woman in Paris,” she quickly added—“for I assure you I shouldn’t even at the best be disposed to allow him more than one. But has he only his mother?” “He has also a sister, older than himself and married; and they’re both remarkably fine women.” “Very handsome, you mean?” This promptitude—almost, as he might have thought, this precipitation, gave him a brief drop; but he came up again. “Mrs. Newsome, I think, is handsome, though she’s not of course, with a son of twenty-eight and a daughter of thirty, in her very first youth. She married, however, extremely young.” “And is wonderful,” Miss Gostrey asked, “for her age?” Strether seemed to feel with a certain disquiet the pressure of it. “I don’t say she’s wonderful. Or rather,” he went on the next moment, “I do say it. It’s exactly what she _is_—wonderful. But I wasn’t thinking of her appearance,” he explained—“striking as that doubtless is. I was thinking—well, of many other things.” He seemed to look at these as if to mention some of them; then took, pulling himself up, another turn. “About Mrs. Pocock people may differ.” “Is that the daughter’s name—‘Pocock’?” “That’s the daughter’s name,” Strether sturdily confessed. “And people may differ, you mean, about _her_ beauty?” “About everything.” “But _you_ admire her?” He gave his friend a glance as to show how he could bear this “I’m perhaps a little afraid of her.”