ONE of the features of the restless afternoon passed by him after Mrs. Pocock's descent was an hour devoted, shortly before dinner, to Maria Gostrey, whom, of late, in spite of so sustained a call on his attention from other quarters, he had by no means neglected. And that he was still not neglecting her will appear from the fact that he was with her again at the same hour on the very morrow—with no less fine a consciousness, moreover, of being able to hold her ear. It continued inveterately to occur, for that matter, that whenever he had taken one of his greater turns he came back to where she so faithfully awaited him. None of these excursions had, on the whole, been livelier than the pair of incidents—the fruit of the short interval since his previous visit—on which he had now to report to her. He had seen Chad Newsome late the night before, and he had had that morning, as a sequel to this conversation, a second interview with Sarah. “But they’re all off,” he said, “at last.”

It puzzled her a moment. “All?—Mr. Newsome with them?”

“Ah, not yet! Sarah and Jim and Mamie. But Waymarsh with them—for Sarah. It's too beautiful,” Strether continued; “I find I don't get over that— it's always a fresh joy. But it's a fresh joy too,” he added, “that—well, what do you think? Little Bilham also goes. But he of course goes for Mamie.”

Miss Gostrey wondered. “‘For’ her? Do you mean they’re already engaged?”

“Well,” said Strether, “say then for me. He’ll do anything for me; just as I will, for that matter—anything I can—for him. Or for Mamie either. Mamie will do anything for me.”

Miss Gostrey gave a substantial sigh. “The way you reduce people to subjection!”

“It's certainly, on one side, wonderful. But it's quite equalled, on another, by the way I don’t. I haven't reduced Sarah since yesterday; though I’ve succeeded in seeing her again, as I’ll presently tell you. The others, however, are all right. Mamie, by that blessed law of ours, must absolutely have a young man.”