“Never,” the girl promptly said. “Never,” she repeated in a tone quite different. After which she added: “I’m the only one.”
“Oh, and I ‘me and you,’ as they say,” her companion amended.
“Yes, and Mr. Mitchy, who’s to come down—please don’t forget—this afternoon.”
Vanderbank had another of his contemplative pauses. “Thank you for reminding me. I shall spread myself as much as possible before he comes—try to produce so much of my effect that I shall be safe. But what did Mr. Longdon ask him for?”
“Ah,” said Nanda gaily, “what did he ask YOU for?”
“Why, for the reason you just now mentioned—that his interest in me is so uncontrollable.”
“Then isn’t his interest in Mitchy—”
“Of the same general order?” Vanderbank broke in. “Not in the least.” He seemed to look for a way to express the distinction—which suddenly occurred to him. “He wasn’t in love with Mitchy’s mother.”
“No”—Nanda turned it over. “Mitchy’s mother, it appears, was awful. Mr. Cashmore knew her.”
Vanderbank’s smoke-puffs were profuse and his pauses frequent. “Awful to Mr. Cashmore? I’m glad to hear it—he must have deserved it. But I believe in her all the same. Mitchy’s often awful himself,” the young man rambled on. “Just so I believe in HIM.”