Free The Ambassadors by Henry James

quivering
groping tentacles—was exactly society, exactly the multiplication
of shibboleths, exactly the discrimination of types and tones,
exactly the wicked old Rows of Chester, rank with feudalism;
exactly in short Europe.
    There was light for observation, however, in an incident that
occurred just before they turned back to luncheon. Waymarsh had
been for a quarter of an hour exceptionally mute and distant, and
something, or other—Strether was never to make out exactly
what—proved, as it were, too much for him after his comrades had
stood for three minutes taking in, while they leaned on an old
balustrade that guarded the edge of the Row, a particularly crooked
and huddled street-view. "He thinks us sophisticated, he thinks us
worldly, he thinks us wicked, he thinks us all sorts of queer
things," Strether reflected; for wondrous were the vague quantities
our friend had within a couple of short days acquired the habit of
conveniently and conclusively lumping together. There seemed
moreover a direct connexion between some such inference and a
sudden grim dash taken by Waymarsh to the opposite side. This
movement was startlingly sudden, and his companions at first
supposed him to have espied, to be pursuing, the glimpse of an
acquaintance. They next made out, however, that an open door had
instantly received him, and they then recognised him as engulfed in
the establishment of a jeweller, behind whose glittering front he
was lost to view. The fact had somehow the note of a demonstration,
and it left each of the others to show a face almost of fear. But
Miss Gostrey broke into a laugh. "What's the matter with him?"
    "Well," said Strether, "he can't stand it."
    "But can't stand what?"
    "Anything. Europe."
    "Then how will that jeweller help him?"
    Strether seemed to make it out, from their position, between the
interstices of arrayed watches, of close-hung dangling gewgaws.
"You'll see."
    "Ah that's just what—if he buys anything—I'm afraid of: that I
shall see something rather dreadful."
    Strether studied the finer appearances. "He may buy
everything."
    "Then don't you think we ought to follow him?"
    "Not for worlds. Besides we can't. We're paralysed. We exchange
a long scared look, we publicly tremble. The thing is, you see, we
'realise.' He has struck for freedom."
    She wondered but she laughed. "Ah what a price to pay! And I was
preparing some for him so cheap."
    "No, no," Strether went on, frankly amused now; "don't call it
that: the kind of freedom you deal in is dear." Then as to justify
himself: "Am I not in MY way trying it? It's this."
    "Being here, you mean, with me?"
    "Yes, and talking to you as I do. I've known you a few hours,
and I've known HIM all my life; so that if the ease I thus take
with you about him isn't magnificent"—and the thought of it held
him a moment—"why it's rather base."
    "It's magnificent!" said Miss Gostrey to make an end of it. "And
you should hear," she added, "the ease I take—and I above all
intend to take—with Mr. Waymarsh."
    Strether thought. "About ME? Ah that's no equivalent. The
equivalent would be Waymarsh's himself serving me up—his
remorseless analysis of me. And he'll never do that"—he was sadly
clear. "He'll never remorselessly analyse me." He quite held her
with the authority of this. "He'll never say a word to you about
me."
    She took it in; she did it justice; yet after an instant her
reason, her restless irony, disposed of it. "Of course he won't.
For what do you take people, that they're able to say words about
anything, able remorselessly to analyse? There are not many like
you and me. It will be only because he's too stupid."
    It stirred in her friend a sceptical echo which was at the same
time the protest of the faith of years. "Waymarsh stupid?"
    "Compared with you."
    Strether had still his eyes on the jeweller's front, and he
waited a moment to answer. "He's a success of a kind that I haven't
approached."
    "Do you mean he has made money?"
    "He makes