“ Thank you!” she charmingly and sadly smiled.
“ It’s all about me here,” he freely continued. “Mrs. Newsome feels things.”
But she seemed doomed always to come back to doubt. “No one feels so much as you . No—not any one.”
“ So much the worse then for every one. It’s very easy.”
They were by this time in the antechamber, still alone together, as she hadn’t rung for a servant. The antechamber was high and square, grave and suggestive too, a little cold and slippery even in summer, and with a few old prints that were precious, Strether divined, on the walls. He stood in the middle, slightly lingering, vaguely directing his glasses, while, leaning against the door-post of the room, she gently pressed her cheek to the side of the recess. “ You would have been a frien
