rself before he intervened. "Of course I'm afraid for my life. But
that's nothing. It isn't that."

He was silent a little longer, as if thinking what it might be.
"There's something I have in mind that I can still do."

But she threw off at last, with a sharp sad headshake, drying her eyes,
what he could still do. "I don't care for that. Of course, as I've
said, you're acting, in your wonderful way, for yourself; and what's
for yourself is no more my business--though I may reach out unholy
hands so clumsily to touch it--than if it were something in Timbuctoo.
It's only that you don't snub me, as you've had fifty chances to
do--it's only your beautiful patience that makes one forget one's
manners. In spite of your patience, all the same," she went on, "you'd
do anything rather than be with us here, even if that were possible.
You'd do everything for us but be mixed up with us--which is a
statement you can easily answer to the advantage of your own manners.
You can say 'What's the use of talking of things that at the best are
impossible?' What IS of course the use? It's only my little madness.
You'd talk if you were tormented. And I don't mean now about HIM. Oh
for him--!" Positively, strangely, bitterly, as it seemed to Strether,
she gave "him," for the moment, away. "You don't care what I think of
you; but I happen to care what you think of me. And what you MIGHT,"
she added. "What you perhaps even did."

He gained time. "What I did--?"

"Did think before. Before this. DIDn't you think--?"

But he had already stopped her. "I didn't think anything. I never
think a step further than I'm obliged to."

"That's perfectly false, I believe," she returned--"except that you
may, no doubt, often pull up when things become TOO ugly; or even, I'll
say, to save you a protest, too beautiful. At any rate, even so far as
it's true, we've thrust on you appearances that you've had to take in
and that have therefore made your obligation. Ugly or beautiful--it
doesn't matter what we call them--you were getting on without them, and
that's where we're detestable. We bore you--that's where we are. And
we may well--for what we've cost you. All you can do NOW is not to
think at all. And I who should have liked to seem to you--well,
sublime!"

He could only after a moment re-echo Miss Barrace. "You're wonderful!"

"I'm old and abject and hideous"--she went on as without hearing him.
"Abject above all. Or old ab