“They hold, they keep every one,” Mitchy went on. “It’s the sacred terror.”
The companions for a little seemed to stand together in this element; after which the elder turned once more away and appeared to continue to walk in it. “Poor Nanda!” then, in a far-off sigh, came across from him to Mitchy. Mitchy on this turned vaguely round to the fire, into which he remained gazing till he heard again Mr. Longdon’s voice. “I knew it of course after all. It was what I came up to town for. That night, before you went abroad, at Mrs. Grendon’s—”
“Yes?”—Mitchy was with him again.
“Well, made me see the future. It was then already too late.”
Mitchy assented with emphasis. “Too late. She was spoiled for him.”
If Mr. Longdon had to take it he took it at least quietly, only saying after a time: “And her mother ISN’T?”
“Oh yes. Quite.”
“And does Mrs. Brook know it?”
“Yes, but doesn’t mind. She resembles you and me. She ‘still likes’ him.”
“But what good will that do her?”