“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?”