“Charming of them both!” Vanderbank exclaimed. “But his gardener—that extraordinarily tall fellow with the long red beard—was almost as nice as himself. I had talks with HIM too and remember every word he said. I remember he told me you asked questions that showed ‘a deal of study.’ But I thought I had never seen all round such a charming lot of people—I mean as those down there that our friend has got about him. It’s an awfully good note for a man, pleasant servants, I always think, don’t you? Mr. Longdon’s—and quite without their saying anything; just from the sort of type and manner they had—struck me as a kind of chorus of praise. The same with Mitchy’s at Mertle, I remember,” Van rambled on. “Mitchy’s the sort of chap who might have awful ones, but I recollect telling him that one quite felt as if it were with THEM one had come to stay. Good note, good note,” he cheerfully repeated. “I’m bound to say, you know,” he continued in this key, “that you’ve a jolly sense for getting in with people who make you comfortable. Then, by the way, he’s still in town?”
Nanda waited. “Do you mean Mr. Mitchy?”
“Oh HE is, I know—I met them two nights ago; and by the way again—don’t let me forget—I want to speak to you about his wife. But I’ve not seen, do you know? Mr. Longdon—which is really too awful. Twice, thrice I think, have I at moments like this one snatched myself from pressure; but there’s no finding the old demon at any earthly hour. When do YOU go—or does he only come here? Of course I see you’ve got the place arranged for him. When I asked at his hotel at what hour he ever IS in, blest if the fellow didn’t say ‘very often, sir, about ten!’ And when I said ‘Ten P. M.?’ he quite laughed at my innocence over a person of such habits. What ARE his habits then now, and what are you putting him up to? Seriously,” Vanderbank pursued, “I AM awfully sorry and I wonder if, the first time you’ve a chance, you’d kindly tell him you’ve heard me say so and that I mean yet to run him to earth. The same really with the dear Mitchys. I didn’t somehow, the other night, in such a lot of people, get at them. But I sat opposite to Aggie all through dinner, and that puts me in mind. I should like volumes from you about Aggie, please. It’s too revolting of me not to go to see her. But every one knows I’m busy. We’re up to our necks!”
“I can’t tell you,” said Nanda, “how kind I think it of you to have found, with all you have to do, a moment for THIS. But please, without delay, let me tell you—!”
Practically, however, he would let her tell him nothing; his almost aggressive friendly optimism clung so to references of short range. “Don’t mention it, please. It’s too charming of you to squeeze me in. To see YOU moreover does me good. Quite distinct good. And your writing me touched me—oh but really. There were all sorts of old things in it.” Then he broke out once more on her books, one of which for some minutes past he had held in his hand. “I see you go in for sets—and, my dear child, upon my word, I see, BIG sets. What’s this?—‘Vol. 23: The British Poets.’ Vol. 23 is delightful—do tell me about Vol. 23. Are you doing much in the British Poets? But when the deuce, you wonderful being, do you find time to read? I don’t find any—it’s too hideous. One relapses in London into such illiteracy and barbarism. I have to keep up a false glitter to hide in conversation my rapidly increasing ignorance: I should be so ashamed after all to see other people NOT shocked by it. But teach me, teach me!” he gaily went on.
“The British Poets,” Nanda immediately answered, “were given me by Mr. Longdon, who has given me all the good books I have except a few—those in that top row—that have been given me at different times by Mr. Mitchy. Mr. Mitchy has sent me flowers too, as well as Mr. Longdon. And they’re both—since we’ve spoken of my seeing them—coming by appointment this afternoon; not together, but Mr. Mitchy at 5.30 and Mr. Longdon at 6.30.”
She had spoken as with conscious promptitude, making up for what she had not yet succeeded in saying by a quick, complete statement of her case. She was evidently also going on with more, but her actual visitor had already taken her up with a laugh. “You ARE making a day of it and you run us like railway-trains!” He looked at his watch. “Have I then time?”
“It seems to me I should say ‘Have I?’ But it’s not half-past four,” Nanda went on, “and though I’ve something very particular of course to say to you it won’t take long. They don’t bring tea till five, and you must surely stay till that. I had already written to you when they each, for the same reason, proposed this afternoon. They go out of town to-morrow for Sunday.”
“Oh I see—and they have to see you first. What an influence you exert, you know, on people’s behaviour!”
She continued as literal as her friend was facetious. “Well, it just happened so, and it didn’t matter, since, on my asking you, don’t you know? to choose your time, you had taken, as suiting you best, this comparatively early hour.”