I don't know how it happens; I don't do it on purpose; it seems to be my doom--as if I were always one of their habits: it's wonderful! I dare say moreover," she pursued with an interested gravity, "that I do, that we all do here, run too much to mere eye.

But how can it be helped?
We're all looking at each other--and in the light of Paris one sees what things resemble.

That's what the light of Paris seems always to show.

It's the fault of the light of Paris--dear old light!" "Dear old Paris!" little Bilham echoed.
"Everything, every one shows," Miss Barrace went on.
"But for what they really are ?" Strether asked.
"Oh I like your Boston 'reallys'! But sometimes--yes." "Dear old Paris then!" Strether resignedly sighed while for a moment they looked at each other.

Then he broke out: "Does Madame de Vionnet do that?
I mean really show for what she is ?" Her answer was prompt.