THE WINGS OF THE DOVE
swered like an angel. He'll come like one. Only he can't arrive, at the nearest, till Thursday afternoon."
"Well then, that's something."
She hesitated. "Something—yes. She likes him."
"Rather! I can see it still, the face with which, when he was here in October—that night when she was in white, when she had people there and those musicians—she committed him to my care. It was beautiful for both of us—she put us in relation. She asked me, for the time, to take him about; I did so, and we quite hit it off. That proved," Densher said with a quick sad smile, "that she liked him."
"He liked you," Susan Shepherd presently risked.
"Ah, I know nothing about that."
"You ought to then. He went with you to galleries and churches; you saved his time for him, showed him the choicest things, and you perhaps will remember telling me, myself, that if he hadn't been a great surgeon he might really have been a great judge. I mean of the beautiful."
"Well," the young man admitted, "that's what he is in having judged her. He hasn't," he went on, "judged her for nothing. His interest in her—which we must make the most of—can only be supremely beneficent."
He still roamed, while he spoke, with his hands in his pockets, and she saw him, on this, as her eyes sufficiently betrayed, trying to keep his distance
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