“Because”—Vanderbank with the aid of his cigar thoughtfully pieced it out—“that may possibly bring me to the point.”
“Possibly!” Mitchy laughed.
He had stood a moment longer, almost as if to see the possibility develop before his eyes, and had even started at the next sound of his friend’s voice. What Vanderbank in fact brought out, however, only made him turn his back. “Do you like so very much little Aggie?”
“Well,” said Mitchy, “Nanda does. And I like Nanda.”
“You’re too amazing,” Vanderbank mused. His musing had presently the effect of making him rise; meditation indeed beset him after he was on his feet. “I can’t help its coming over me then that on such an extraordinary system you must also rather like ME.”
“What will you have, my dear Van?” Mitchy frankly asked. “It’s the sort of thing you must be most used to. For at the present moment—look!—aren’t we all at you at once?”
It was as if his dear Van had managed to appear to wonder. “‘All’?”
“Nanda, Mrs. Brook, Mr. Longdon—!”
“And you. I see.”
“Names of distinction. And all the others,” Mitchy pursued, “that I don’t count.”