“Oh no, he hated it.”
“But hadn’t he—if he should go in—known he WOULD?”
“Yes, perfectly. But he wanted to see.”
“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?”