"To see--?" Mrs. Brook just threw out.
"Well, where I go so much. And he knew I wished it."
"I don"t quite see why," Mrs. Brook mildly observed. And then as her daughter said nothing to help her: "At any rate he did loathe it?"
Nanda, for a reply, simply after an instant put a question. "Well, how can he understand?"
"You mean, like me, why you do go there so much? How can he indeed?"
"I don"t mean that," the girl returned--"it"s just that he understands perfectly, because he saw them all, in such an extraordinary way--well, what can I ever call it?--clutch me and cling to me."
Mrs. Brook, with full gravity, considered this picture. "And was Mr.
Cashmore to-day so ridiculous?"
"Ah he"s not ridiculous, mamma--he"s very unhappy. He thinks now Lady f.a.n.n.y probably won"t go, but he feels that may be after all only the worse for him."
"She WILL go," Mrs. Brook answered with one of her roundabout approaches to decision. "He IS too great an idiot. She was here an hour ago, and if ever a woman was packed--!"
"Well," Nanda objected, "but doesn"t she spend her time in packing and unpacking?"
This enquiry, however, scarce pulled up her mother. "No--though she HAS, no doubt, hitherto wasted plenty of labour. She has now a dozen boxes--I could see them there in her wonderful eyes--just waiting to be called for. So if you"re counting on her not going, my dear--!" Mrs. Brook gave a head-shake that was the warning of wisdom.
"Oh I don"t care what she does!" Nanda replied. "What I meant just now was that Mr. Longdon couldn"t understand why, with so much to make them so, they couldn"t be decently happy."
"And did he wish you to explain?"
"I tried to, but I didn"t make it any better. He doesn"t like them. He doesn"t even care for Tish."
"He told you so--right out?"
"Oh," Nanda said, "of course I asked him. I didn"t press him, because I never do--!"
"You never do?" Mrs. Brook broke in as with the glimpse of a new light.
The girl showed an indulgence for this interest that was for a moment almost elderly. "I enjoy awfully with him seeing just how to take him."
Her tone and her face evidently put forth for her companion at this juncture something freshly, even quite supremely suggestive; and yet the effect of them on Mrs. Brook"s part was only a question so off-hand that it might already often have been asked. The mother"s eyes, to ask it, we may none the less add, attached themselves closely to the daughter"s, and her face just glowed. "You like him so very awfully?"
It was as if the next instant Nanda felt herself on her guard. Yet she spoke with a certain surrender. "Well, it"s rather intoxicating to be one"s self--!" She had only a drop over the choice of her term.
"So tremendously made up to, you mean--even by a little fussy ancient man? But DOESN"T he, my dear," Mrs. Brook continued with encouragement, "make up to you?"
A supposit.i.tious spectator would certainly on this have imagined in the girl"s face the delicate dawn of a sense that her mother had suddenly become vulgar, together with a general consciousness that the way to meet vulgarity was always to be frank and simple and above all to ignore. "He makes one enjoy being liked so much--liked better, I do think, than I"ve ever been liked by any one."
If Mrs. Brook hesitated it was, however, clearly not because she had noticed. "Not better surely than by dear Mitchy? Or even if you come to that by Tishy herself."
Nanda"s simplicity maintained itself. "Oh Mr. Longdon"s different from Tishy."
Her mother again hesitated. "You mean of course he knows more?"
The girl considered it. "He doesn"t know MORE. But he knows other things. And he"s pleasanter than Mitchy."
"You mean because he doesn"t want to marry you?"
It was as if she had not heard that Nanda continued: "Well, he"s more beautiful."
"O-oh!" cried Mrs. Brook, with a drawn-out extravagance of comment that amounted to an impugnment of her taste even by herself.
It contributed to Nanda"s quietness. "He"s one of the most beautiful people in the world."
Her companion at this, with a quick wonder, fixed her. "DOES he, my dear, want to marry you?"
"Yes--to all sorts of ridiculous people."
"But I mean--would you take HIM?"
Nanda, rising, met the question with a short ironic "Yes!" that showed her first impatience. "It"s so charming being liked without being approved."
But Mrs. Brook only wanted to know. "He doesn"t approve--?"
"No, but it makes no difference. It"s all exactly right--it doesn"t matter."
Mrs. Brook seemed to wonder, however, exactly how these things could be. "He doesn"t want you to give up anything?" She looked as if swiftly thinking what Nanda MIGHT give up.
"Oh yes, everything."
It was as if for an instant she found her daughter inscrutable; then she had a strange smile. "Me?"
The girl was perfectly prompt. "Everything. But he wouldn"t like me nearly so much if I really did."
Her mother had a further pause. "Does he want to ADOPT you?" Then more quickly and sadly, though also a little as if lacking nerve to push the research: "We couldn"t give you up, Nanda."
"Thank you so much, mamma. But we shan"t be very much tried," Nanda said, "because what it comes to seems to be that I"m really what you may call adopting HIM. I mean I"m little by little changing him--gradually showing him that, as I couldn"t possibly have been different, and as also of course one can"t keep giving up, the only way is for him not to mind, and to take me just as I am. That, don"t you see? is what he would never have expected to do."
Mrs. Brook recognised in a manner the explanation, but still had her wistfulness. "But--a--to take you, "as you are," WHERE?"
"Well, to the South Kensington Museum."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Brook. Then, however, in a more exemplary tone: "Do you enjoy so very much your long hours with him?"
Nanda appeared for an instant to think how to express it. "Well, we"re great friends."
"And always talking about Granny?"
"Oh no--really almost never now."
"He doesn"t think so awfully much of her?" There was an oddity of eagerness in the question--a hope, a kind of dash, for something that might have been in Nanda"s interest.
The girl met these things only with obliging gravity. "I think he"s losing any sense of my likeness. He"s too used to it--or too many things that are too different now cover it up."