THE AWKWARD AGE
know—you haven't the least idea. That's just why I want to show you."
Nanda looked as if already she saw it in the distance. "But will it be peace if I'm there? I mean for you," she added.
"It isn't a question of 'me.' Everybody's omelette is made of somebody's eggs. Besides, I think that when we're alone together—"
He had dropped for so long that she wondered. "Well, when we are—?"
"Why, it will be all right," he simply concluded. "Temples of peace, the ancients used to call them. We'll set up one, and I shall be at least doorkeeper. You will come down whenever you like."
She gave herself to him in her silence more than she could have done in words. "Have you arranged it with mamma?" she said, however, at last.
"I've arranged everything."
"She won't want to come?"
Her friend's laugh turned him to her. "Don't be nervous. There are things as to which your mother trusts me."
"But others as to which not."
Their eyes met for some time on this, and it ended in his saying: "Well, you must help me." Nanda, but without shrinking, looked away again, and Mr. Longdon, as if to consecrate their understanding by the air of ease, passed to another subject. "Mr. Mitchett's the most princely host."
"Isn't he too kind for anything? Do you know what he pretends?" Nanda went on. "He says, in the most extraordinary way, that he does it all for me."
"Takes this great place and fills it with servants and company—?"
"Yes, just so that I may come down for a Sunday or two. Of course he has only taken it for three or four
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