Vanderbank laughed aloud, and it was especially at her seriousness. “Well, upon my soul!”
“Yes,” she pursued, “what I am I must remain. I haven’t what’s called a principle of growth.” Making marks in the earth with her umbrella she appeared to cipher it out. “I’m about as good as I can be—and about as bad. If Mr. Longdon can’t make me different nobody can.”
Vanderbank could only speak in the tone of high amusement. “And he has given up the hope?”
“Yes—though not ME altogether. He has given up the hope he originally had.”
“He gives up quickly—in three months!”
“Oh these three months,” she answered, “have been a long time: the fullest, the most important, for what has happened in them, of my life.” She still poked at the ground; then she added: “And all thanks to YOU.”
“To me?”—Vanderbank couldn’t fancy!
“Why, for what we were speaking of just now—my being to-day so in everything and squeezing up and down no matter whose staircase. Isn’t it one crowded hour of glorious life?” she asked. “What preceded it was an age, no doubt—but an age without a name.”
Vanderbank watched her a little in silence, then spoke quite beside the question. “It’s astonishing how at moments you remind me of your mother!”
At this she got up. “Ah there it is! It’s what I shall never shake off. That, I imagine, is what Mr. Longdon feels.”