"Well, Mr.Strether--!" she murmured with vagueness, yet with sharpness, while her crimson spot burned a trifle brighter and he was aware that this must be for the present the limit of her response.
Madame de Vionnet had already, however, come to his aid, and Waymarsh, as if for further participation, moved again back to them.

It was true that the aid rendered by Madame de Vionnet was questionable; it was a sign that, for all one might confess to with her, and for all she might complain of not enjoying, she could still insidiously show how much of the material of conversation had accumulated between them.
"The real truth is, you know, that you sacrifice one without mercy to dear old Maria.

She leaves no room in your life for anybody else.

Do you know," she enquired of Mrs.Pocock, "about dear old Maria?
The worst is that Miss Gostrey is really a wonderful woman." "Oh yes indeed," Strether answered for her, "Mrs.Pocock knows about Miss Gostrey.

Your mother, Sarah, must have told you about her; your mother knows everything," he sturdily pursued.