BOOK EIGHTH: TISHY GRENDON
"Oh!" said Vanderbank.
"Mr. Longdon came up with me—I came here, Friday last, straight."
"You parted at the door?" he asked, with marked gaiety.
She thought a moment—she was more serious. "Yes—but only for a day or two. He's coming to-night."
"Good. How delightful!"
"He'll be glad to see you." Nanda said, looking at the flowers.
"Awfully kind of him, when I've been such a brute."
"How—a brute?"
"Well, I mean not writing—nor going back."
"Oh, I see," Nanda simply returned.
It was a simplicity that, clearly enough, made her friend a little awkward. "Has he—a—minded? But he can't have complained!" he quickly added.
"Oh, he never complains."
"No, no—it isn't in him. But it's just that," said Vanderbank, "that makes one feel so base. I've been ferociously busy."
"He knows that—he likes it," Nanda returned. "He delights in your work. And I've done what I can for him."
"Ah," said her companion, "you've evidently brought him round. I mean to this lady."
"To Tishy? Oh, of course I can't leave her—with nobody."
"No"—Vanderbank became jocose again—"that's a London necessity. You can't leave anybody with nobody—exposed to everybody."
Mild as it was, however, Nanda missed the pleasantry. "Mr. Grendon's not here."
"Ah, where is he?"
"Yachting—but she doesn't know."
"Then she and you are just doing this together?"
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