Edward Brookenham made no motion. “You don’t like better to do it yourself?”
“If I liked better,” said Mrs. Brook, “I’d have already done it. The way to make it not come from me is surely not for me to give it to her. Besides, I want to be here to receive him first.”
“Then can’t she know it afterwards?”
“After Mr. Longdon has gone? The whole point is that she should know it in time to let HIM know it.”
Edward still communed with the fire. “And what’s the point of THAT?” Her impatience, which visibly increased, carried her away again, and by the time she reached the window he had launched another question. “Are you in such a hurry she should know that Van doesn’t want her?”
“What do you call a hurry when I’ve waited nearly a year? Nanda may know or not as she likes—may know whenever: if she doesn’t know pretty well by this time she’s too stupid for it to matter. My only pressure’s for Mr. Longdon. She’ll have it there for him when he arrives.”
“You mean she’ll make haste to tell him?”
Mrs. Brook raised her eyes a moment to some upper immensity. “She’ll mention it.”
Her husband on the other hand, his legs outstretched, looked straight at the toes of his boots. “Are you very sure?” Then as he remained without an answer: “Why should she if he hasn’t told HER?”
“Of the way I so long ago let you know that he had put the matter to Van? It’s not out between them in words, no doubt; but I fancy that for things to pass they’ve not to dot their i’s quite so much, my dear, as we two. Without a syllable said to her she’s yet aware in every fibre of her little being of what has taken place.”