“I thought she was just what you _could_ talk of. You _don’t_ trust me,” Miss Gostrey after a moment declared. It had its effect. “Well, her money is spent, her life conceived and carried on with a large beneficence—” “That’s a kind of expiation of wrongs? Gracious,” she added before he could speak, “how intensely you make me see her!” “If you see her,” Strether dropped, “it’s all that’s necessary.” She really seemed to have her. “I feel that. She _is_, in spite of everything, handsome.” This at least enlivened him. “What do you mean by everything?” “Well, I mean _you_.” With which she had one of her swift changes of ground. “You say the concern needs looking after; but doesn’t Mrs. Newsome look after it?” “So far as possible. She’s wonderfully able, but it’s not her affair, and her life’s a good deal overcharged. She has many, many things.” “And you also?” “Oh yes—I’ve many too, if you will.” “I see. But what I mean is,” Miss Gostrey amended, “do you also look after the business?” “Oh no, I don’t touch the business.” “Only everything else?” “Well, yes—some things.” “As for instance—?” Strether obligingly thought. “Well, the Review.” “The Review?—you have a Review?” “Certainly. Woollett has a Review—which Mrs. Newsome, for the most part, magnificently pays for and which I, not at all magnificently, edit. My name’s on the cover,” Strether pursued, “and I’m really rather disappointed and hurt that you seem never to have heard of it.” She neglected for a moment this grievance. “And what kind of a Review is it?” His serenity was now completely restored. “Well, it’s green.” “Do you mean in political colour as they say here—in thought?” “No; I mean the cover’s green—of the most lovely shade.” “And with Mrs. Newsome’s name on it too?” He waited a little. “Oh as for that you must judge if she peeps out. She’s behind the whole thing; but she’s of a delicacy and a discretion—!” Miss Gostrey took it all. “I’m sure. She _would_ be. I don’t underrate her. She must be rather a swell.” “Oh yes, she’s rather a swell!” “A Woollett swell—_bon!_ I like the idea of a Woollett swell. And you must be rather one too, to be so mixed up with her.” “Ah no,” said Strether, “that’s not the way it works.” But she had already taken him up. “The way it works—you needn’t tell me!—is of course that you efface yourself.” “With my name on the cover?” he lucidly objected. “Ah but you don’t put it on for yourself.” “I beg your pardon—that’s exactly what I do put it on for. It’s exactly the thing that I’m reduced to doing for myself. It seems to rescue a little, you see, from the wreck of hopes and ambitions, the refuse-heap of disappointments and failures, my one presentable little scrap of an identity.”