THE WINGS OF THE DOVE
"You're old enough—with plenty of Mrs. Stringham."
Nothing might have been so odd for him now, could he have measured it, as his being able to feel, quite while he drew from her these successive cues, that he was essentially "seeing what she would say"—an instinct compatible for him therefore with that absence of a need to know her better to which she had a moment before done injustice. If it hadn't been appearing to him in gleams that she would somewhere break down, he probably couldn't have gone on. Still, as she wasn't breaking down there was nothing for him but to continue. "Is your going Mrs. Lowder's idea?"
"Very much indeed. Of course again you see what it does for us. And I don't," she added, "refer only to our going, but to Aunt Maud's view of the general propriety of it."
"I see again, as you say," Densher said after a moment. "It makes everything fit."
"Everything."
The word, for a little, held the air, and he might have seemed the while to be looking, by no means dimly now, at all it stood for. But he had in fact been looking at something else. "You leave her here then to die?"
"Ah, she believes she won't die. Not if you stay. I mean," Kate explained, "Aunt Maud believes."
"And that's all that's necessary?"
Still, indeed, she didn't break down. "Didn't we
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