“At Tishy’s? Oh you didn’t matter,” said Mrs. Brook. “Everything, every one helps. Harold distinctly”—she seemed to figure it all out—“and even the poor children, I dare say, a little. Oh but every one”—she warmed to the vision—“it’s perfect. Jane immensely, par example. Almost all the others who come to the house. Cashmore, Carrie, Tishy, Fanny—bless their hearts all!—each in their degree.”
Edward Brookenham had under the influence of this demonstration gradually risen from his seat, and as his wife approached that part of her process which might be expected to furnish the proof he placed himself before her with his back to the fire. “And Mitchy, I suppose?”
But he was out. “No. Mitchy’s different.”
He wondered. “Different?”
“Not a help. Quite a drawback.” Then as his face told how these WERE involutions, “You needn’t understand, but you can believe me,” she added. “The one who does most is of course Van himself.” It was a statement by which his failure to apprehend was not diminished, and she completed her operation. “By not liking her.”
Edward’s gloom, on this, was not quite blankness, yet it was dense. “Do you like his not liking her?”
“Dear no. No better than HE does.”
“And he doesn’t—?”
“Oh he hates it.”
“Of course I haven’t asked him,” Edward appeared to say more to himself than to his wife.