HE had, however, within two days, another report to make. He had sent Miss Gostrey an early word, to ask if he might come to breakfast; in consequence of which, at noon, she awaited him in the cool shade of her little Dutch-looking dining-room. This retreat was at the back of the house, with a view of a scrap of old garden that had been saved from modern ravage; and though he had on more than one other occasion had his legs under its small and peculiarly polished table of hospitality, the place had never before struck him as so sacred to pleasant knowledge, to intimate charm, to antique order, to a neatness that was almost august. To sit there was, as he had told her before, to see life reflected for the time in ideally kept pewter; which was somehow becoming, improving to life, so that one's eyes were held and comforted. Strether's were comforted, at all events, now—and the more that it was the last time—with the charming effect, on the board bare of a cloth and proud of its perfect surface, of the small old crockery and old silver, matched by the more substantial pieces happily disposed about the room. The specimens of vivid Delf, in particular, had the dignity of family portraits; and it was in the midst of them that our friend resignedly expressed himself. He spoke even with a certain philosophic humour. “There's nothing more to wait for; I seem to have done a good day's work. I’ve let them have it all round. I’ve seen Chad, who has been to London and come back. He tells me I’m ‘exciting,’ and I seem indeed pretty well to have upset everyone. I’ve at any rate excited him. He's distinctly restless.”

“You’ve excited me,” Miss Gostrey smiled. “I’m distinctly restless.”

“Oh, you were that when I found you. It seems to me I’ve rather got you out of it. What's this,” he asked, as he looked about him, “but perfect peace?”

“I wish with all my heart,” she presently replied, “I could make you find it so.” And they faced each other on it, across the table, as if things unuttered were in the air.