“She’s over there beside the lamp—also a present from the original.”
II
Mr. Longdon had gone to the place—little Nanda was in glazed white wood. He took her up and held her out; for a moment he said nothing, but presently, over his glasses, rested on his host a look intenser even than his scrutiny of the faded image. “Do they give their portraits now?”
“Little girls—innocent lambs? Surely—to old friends. Didn’t they in your time?”
Mr. Longdon studied the portrait again; after which, with an exhalation of something between superiority and regret, “They never did to me,” he returned.
“Well, you can have all you want now!” Vanderbank laughed.
His friend gave a slow droll headshake. “I don’t want them ‘now’!”
“You could do with them, my dear sir, still,” Vanderbank continued in the same manner, “every bit I do!”
“I’m sure you do nothing you oughtn’t.” Mr. Longdon kept the photograph and continued to look at it. “Her mother told me about her—promised me I should see her next time.”
“You must—she’s a great friend of mine.”