Again she met his eyes, but to the result that after an instant
her own turned away with impatience. "You don't sell? Oh I'm glad
of THAT!" After which however, and before he could protest, she was
off again. "She's just a MORAL swell."

He accepted gaily enough the definition. "Yes--I really think that
describes her."

But it had for his friend the oddest connexion. "How does she do
her hair?"

He laughed out. "Beautifully!"

"Ah that doesn't tell me. However, it doesn't matter--I know. It's
tremendously neat--a real reproach; quite remarkably thick and
without, as yet, a single strand of white. There!"

He blushed for her realism, but gaped at her truth. "You're the
very deuce."

"What else SHOULD I be? It was as the very deuce I pounced on you.
But don't let it trouble you, for everything but the very deuce--
at our age--is a bore and a delusion, and even he himself, after all,
but half a joy." With which, on a single sweep of her wing, she
resumed. "You assist her to expiate--which is rather hard when
you've yourself not sinned."

"It's she who hasn't sinned," Strether replied. "I've sinned the
most."