It brought him round. “No—you don’t even ‘burn.’ I don’t think, you know, you’ll guess it.” “How then can I judge how vulgar it is?” “You’ll judge when I do tell you”—and he persuaded her to patience. But it may even now frankly be mentioned that he in the sequel never _was_ to tell her. He actually never did so, and it moreover oddly occurred that by the law, within her, of the incalculable, her desire for the information dropped and her attitude to the question converted itself into a positive cultivation of ignorance. In ignorance she could humour her fancy, and that proved a useful freedom. She could treat the little nameless object as indeed unnameable—she could make their abstention enormously definite. There might indeed have been for Strether the portent of this in what she next said. “Is it perhaps then because it’s so bad—because your industry as you call it, _is_ so vulgar—that Mr. Chad won’t come back? Does he feel the taint? Is he staying away not to be mixed up in it?” “Oh,” Strether laughed, “it wouldn’t appear—would it?—that he feels ‘taints’! He’s glad enough of the money from it, and the money’s his whole basis. There’s appreciation in that—I mean as to the allowance his mother has hitherto made him. She has of course the resource of cutting this allowance off; but even then he has unfortunately, and on no small scale, his independent supply—money left him by his grandfather, her own father.” “Wouldn’t the fact you mention then,” Miss Gostrey asked, “make it just more easy for him to be particular? Isn’t he conceivable as fastidious about the source—the apparent and public source—of his income?” Strether was able quite good-humouredly to entertain the proposition. “The source of his grandfather’s wealth—and thereby of his own share in it—was not particularly noble.” “And what source was it?” Strether cast about. “Well—practices.” “In business? Infamies? He was an old swindler?” “Oh,” he said with more emphasis than spirit, “I shan’t describe _him_ nor narrate his exploits.” “Lord, what abysses! And the late Mr. Newsome then?” “Well, what about him?” “Was he like the grandfather?” “No—he was on the other side of the house. And he was different.” Miss Gostrey kept it up. “Better?” Her friend for a moment hung fire. “No.” Her comment on his hesitation was scarce the less marked for being mute. “Thank you. _Now_ don’t you see,” she went on, “why the boy doesn’t come home? He’s drowning his shame.” “His shame? What shame?” “What shame? Comment donc? _The_ shame.” “But where and when,” Strether asked, “is ‘_the_ shame’—where is any shame—to-day? The men I speak of—they did as every one does; and (besides being ancient history) it was all a matter of appreciation.” She showed how she understood. “Mrs. Newsome has appreciated?” “Ah I can’t speak for _her!_” “In the midst of such doings—and, as I understand you, profiting by them, she at least has remained exquisite?” “Oh I can’t talk of her!” Strether said.