“On me?” Mr. Longdon still somewhat extravagantly smiled.
Mitchy thought. “Well, on two or three persons, of whom you ARE the first for me to tackle. But what I must begin with is having from you that you recognise she trusts us.”
Mitchy’s idea after an instant had visibly gone further. “Both of them—the two women up there at present so strangely together. Mrs. Brook must too; immensely. But for that you won’t care.”
Mr. Longdon had relapsed into an anxiety more natural than his expression of a moment before. “It’s about time! But if Nanda didn’t trust us,” he went on, “her case would indeed be a sorry one. She has nobody else to trust.”
“Yes.” Mitchy’s concurrence was grave. “Only you and me.”
“Only you and me.”
The eyes of the two men met over it in a pause terminated at last by Mitchy’s saying: “We must make it all up to her.”
“Is that your idea?”
“Ah,” said Mitchy gently, “don’t laugh at it.”
His friend’s grey gloom again covered him. “But what CAN—?” Then as Mitchy showed a face that seemed to wince with a silent “What COULD?” the old man completed his objection. “Think of the magnitude of the loss.”