THE AWKWARD AGE
planations, after all, spoil things, and if you can make anything of us, and will sometimes come back, you'll find everything in its native freshness. You'll see, you'll feel for yourself."
Mr. Longdon stood before her and raised to Vanderbank, when she had ceased, the eyes he had attached to the carpet while she talked. "And must I go now?" Explanations, she had said, spoiled things, but he might have been a stranger at an Eastern court, comically helpless without his interpreter.
"If Mrs. Brook desires to 'spare' you," Vanderbank kindly replied, "the best way to make sure of it would perhaps indeed be to remove you. But hadn't we a hope of Nanda?"
"It might be of use for us to wait for her?"—it was still to his young friend that Mr. Longdon put it.
"Ah, when she's once on the loose—!" Mrs. Brookenham sighed. "Unless la voilà," she said the next moment, as a hand was heard at the door-latch. It was only, however, a footman who entered with a little tray that, on his approaching his mistress, offered to sight the brown envelope of a telegram. She immediately took leave to open this missive, after the quick perusal of which she had another vision of them all. "It is she—the modern daughter. 'Tishy keeps me dinner and opera; clothes all right; return uncertain, but if before morning have latch-key.' She won't come home till morning!" said Mrs. Brook.
"But think of the comfort of the latch-key!" Vanderbank laughed. "You might go to the opera," he said to Mr. Longdon.
"Hanged if I don't!" Mr. Cashmore exclaimed.
Mr. Longdon appeared to have caught from Nanda's message an obscure agitation; he met his young friend's suggestion, at all events, with visible intensity. "Will you go with me?"
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