Well," she continued with a beautiful conscious mildness, "I liked and admired her beyond every one in the old time, and she knew it--perhaps that's precisely what has made her go--and I dare say I haven't lost her for ever." Strether still said nothing; he had a horror, as he now thought of himself, of being in question between women--was in fact already quite enough on his way to that, and there was moreover, as it came to him, perceptibly, something behind these allusions and professions that, should he take it in, would square but ill with his present resolve to simplify.

It was as if, for him, all the same, her softness and sadness were sincere.

He felt that not less when she soon went on: "I'm extremely glad of her happiness." But it also left him mute--sharp and fine though the imputation it conveyed.
What it conveyed was that HE was Maria Gostrey's happiness, and for the least little instant he had the impulse to challenge the thought.

He could have done so however only by saying "What then do you suppose to be between us ?" and he was wonderfully glad a moment later not to have spoken.

He would rather seem stupid any day than fatuous, and he drew back as well, with a smothered inward shudder, from the consideration of what women--of highly-developed type in particular--might think of each other.