THE WINGS OF THE DOVE
my impression of him, I feel," said Mrs. Stringham, "that you've been magnificent."
"Of course I've been magnificent. When," asked Maud Manningham, "was I anything else? But Milly won't be, you know, if she marries Merton Densher."
"Oh, it's always magnificent to marry the man one loves. But we're going fast!" Mrs. Stringham wofully smiled.
"The thing is to go fast if I see the case right. What had I, after all, but my instinct of that on coming back with you, night before last, to pick up Kate? I felt what I felt—I knew in my bones the man had returned."
"That's just where, as I say, you're magnificent. But wait," said Mrs. Stringham, "till you've seen him."
"I shall see him immediately"—Mrs. Lowder took it up with decision. "What is then," she asked, "your impression?"
Mrs. Stringham's impression seemed lost in her doubts. "How can he ever care for her?"
Her companion, in her companion's heavy manner, sat on it. "By being put in the way of it."
"For God's sake then," Mrs. Stringham wailed, "put him in the way. You have him, one feels, in your hand."
Maud Lowder's eyes at this rested on her friend's. "Is that your impression of him?"
"It's my impression, dearest, of you. You handle everyone."
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