He continued light. “If she had declared her passion shouldn’t I rather compromise her—?”
“By letting me know?” Mr. Longdon reflected. “I’m sure I can’t say—it’s a sort of thing for which I haven’t a measure or a precedent. In my time women didn’t declare their passion. I’m thinking of what the meaning is of Mrs. Brookenham’s wanting you—as I’ve heard it called—herself.”
Vanderbank, still with his smile, smoked a minute. “That’s what you’ve heard it called?”
“Yes, but you must excuse me from telling you by whom.”
He was amused at his friend’s discretion. “It’s unimaginable. But it doesn’t matter. We all call everything—anything. The meaning of it, if you and I put it so, is—well, a modern shade.”
“You must deal then yourself,” said Mr. Longdon, “with your modern shades.” He spoke now as if the case simply awaited such dealing.
But at this his young friend was more grave. “YOU could do nothing?—to bring, I mean, Mrs. Brook round.”
Mr. Longdon fairly started. “Propose on your behalf for her daughter? With your authority—tomorrow. Authorise me and I instantly act.”
Vanderbank’s colour again rose—his flush was complete. “How awfully you want it!”
Mr. Longdon, after a look at him, turned away. “How awfully YOU don’t!”