“And what did your mother say?”
“‘Imagination—dear mamma? Not a grain!’”
The old man showed a faint flush. “Your mother then has a supply that makes up for it.”
The girl fixed him on this with a deeper attention. “You don’t like her having said that.”
His colour came stronger, though a slightly strained smile did what it could to diffuse coolness. “I don’t care a single scrap, my dear, in respect to the friend I’m speaking of, for any judgement but my own.”
“Not even for her daughter’s?”
“Not even for her daughter’s.” Mr. Longdon had not spoken loud, but he rang as clear as a bell.
Nanda, for admiration of it, broke almost for the first time into the semblance of a smile. “You feel as if my grandmother were quite YOUR property!”
“Oh quite.”
“I say—that’s splendid!”