BOOK FIFTH: THE DUCHESS
of all, the gold paper of the mind." He gave a flip with a finger-nail to his cigarette, and looked at its quickened fire; after which he pursued very familiarly, but with a kindness that of itself qualified the mere humor of the thing: "Don't talk, my dear child, as if you didn't really know me for the best friend you have in the world." As soon as he had spoken he pulled out his watch, so that if his words had led to something of a pause this movement offered a pretext for breaking it. Nanda asked the hour, and, on his replying "Five-fifteen," remarked that there would now be tea on the terrace, with everyone gathered at it. "Then shall we go and join them?" her companion demanded.
He had made, however, no other motion, and when, after hesitating, she said "Yes, with pleasure," it was also without a change of position. "I like this," she inconsequently added.
"So do I, awfully. Tea on the terrace," Vanderbank went on, "isn't 'in' it. But who's here?"
"Oh, every one. All your set."
"Mine? Have I still a set—with the universal vagabondism you accuse me of?"
"Well then Mitchy's—whoever they are."
"And nobody of yours?"
"Oh yes," Nanda said, "all mine. He must at least have arrived by this time. My set's Mr. Longdon," she explained. "He's all of it now."
"Then where in the world am I?"
"Oh, you're an extra. There are always extras."
"A complete set and one over?" Vanderbank laughed. "Where then is Tishy?"
Charming and grave, the girl thought a moment. "She's in Paris, with her mother—on their way to Aixles-Bains." Then, with impatience, she continued: "Do you know that's a great deal to say—what you said just now? I mean about your being the best friend I have."
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