THE WINGS OF THE DOVE
"Because, you think, I'm so free?"
"The freest person probably now in the world. You've got everything."
"Well," she smiled, "call it so. I don't complain."
On which again, in spite of himself, it let him in. "No, I know you don't complain."
As soon as he had said it he had himself heard the pity in it. His telling her she had "everything" was extravagant kind humour, whereas his knowing so tenderly that she didn't complain was terrible kind gravity. Milly felt, he could see, the difference; he might as well have praised her outright for looking death in the face. She looked him again, for the moment, and it made nothing better for him that she took him up more gently than ever. "It isn't a merit—when one sees one's way."
"To peace and plenty? Well, I dare say not."
"I mean to keeping what one has."
"Oh, that's success. If what one has is good," Densher said at random, "it's enough to try for."
"Well, it's my limit. I'm not trying for more." To which then she added with a change: "And now about your book."
"My book———?" He had got, in a moment, far from it.
"The one you're now to understand that nothing will induce either Susie or me to run the risk of spoiling."
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