BOOK FIFTH: THE DUCHESS
bewilderment came in odd, cold gusts; these were unreasoned and capricious; one of them, at all events, during his companion's pause, must have roared in his ears. Was it not therefore through some continuance of the sound that he heard her go on speaking? "Of course you know the poor child's own condition."
It took him a good while to answer. "Do you know it?" he asked with his eyes still away.
"If your question's ironical," she laughed, "your irony's perfectly wasted. I should be ashamed of myself if, with my relationship and my interest, I hadn't made sure. Nanda's fairly sick—as sick as a little cat—with her passion." It was with an intensity of silence that Mr. Longdon appeared to accept this; he was even so dumb for a minute that the oddity of the image could draw from him no natural sound. The Duchess once more, accordingly, recognized an opportunity. "It has doubtless already occurred to you that, since your sentiment for the living is the charming fruit of your sentiment for the dead, there would be a sacrifice to Lady Julia's memory more exquisite than any other."
At this, finally, Mr. Longdon turned. "The effort—on the lines you speak of—for Nanda's happiness?"
She fairly glowed with hope. "And, by the same token, such a piece of poetic justice! Quite the loveliest, it would be, I think, one had ever heard of."
So, for some time more, they sat confronted. "I don't quite see your difficulty," he said at last. "I do happen to know, I confess, that Nanda herself extremely desires the execution of your project."
His friend's smile betrayed no surprise at this effect of her eloquence. "You're bad at dodging. Nanda's desire is, inevitably, to stop off, for herself, every question of any one but Vanderbank. If she wants me to succeed in arranging with Mr. Mitchett, can you ask for a plainer sign of her private predicament? But you've signs
209
