as if it were a question of immediate action, she visibly considered. "Out of waiting for him?—of seeing him at all?"
"Oh no—not that," said poor Strether, looking grave. "I've got to wait for him—and I want very much to see him. But out of the terror. You did put your finger on it a few minutes ago. It's general, but it avails itself of particular occasions. That's what it's doing for me now. I'm always considering something else; something else, I mean, than the thing of the moment. The obsession of the other thing is the terror. I'm considering at present, for instance, something else than you."
She listened with charming earnestness. "Oh, you oughtn't to do that!"
"It's what I admit. Make it, then, impossible."
She continued to think. "Is it really an 'order' from you?—that I shall take the job? Will you give yourself up?"
Poor Strether heaved his sigh. "If I only could! But that's the deuce of it—that I never can. No—I can't."
She was not, however, discouraged. "But you desire to, at least!"
"Oh, unspeakably!"
"Ah then, if you'll try!"—and she took over the job, as she had called it, on the spot. "Trust me!" she exclaimed; and the action of this, as they retraced their steps, was presently to make him pass his hand into her arm in the manner of a kind, dependent, paternal old person who wishes to be "nice" to a younger one. If he drew it out again, indeed, as they approached the inn, this may have been because, after more talk had passed between them, the relation of age, or at least of experience—which, for that matter, had already played to and fro with some freedom—affected him as incurring a readjustment. It was at all events perhaps lucky that they arrived in sufficiently separate fashion within range of the hotel door. The young lady they had left in the glass cage watched as if she had come to await them on the threshold. At her side stood a person equally interested, by his attitude, in their return, and the effect of the sight of whom was instantly to determine for Strether another of those
