BOOK FIFTH: THE DUCHESS
Vanderbank had for this any decent gayety. "Ah, that of course may perfectly be!"
"But is it? That's the question."
He continued light. "If she had declared her passion shouldn't I rather compromise her—?"
"By letting me know?" Mr. Longdon reflected. "I'm sure I can't say—it's a sort of thing for which I haven't a measure or a precedent. In my time women didn't declare their passion. I'm thinking of what the meaning is of Mrs. Brookenham's wanting you—as I've heard it called—herself."
Vanderbank, still with his smile, smoked a minute. "That's what you've heard it called?"
"Yes, but you must excuse me from telling you by whom."
He was amused at his friend's discretion. "It's unimaginable. But it doesn't matter. We all call everything—anything. The meaning of it, if you and I put it so, is—well, a modern shade."
"You must deal then yourself," said Mr. Longdon, "with your modern shades." He spoke now as if the case simply awaited such dealing. But at this his young friend was more grave. "You could do nothing?—to bring, I mean, Mrs. Brook round."
Mr. Longdon fairly started. "Propose, on your behalf, for her daughter? With your authority—to-morrow. Authorize me, and I instantly act."
Vanderbank's color again rose—his flush was complete. "How awfully you want it!"
Mr. Longdon, after a look at him, turned away. "How awfully you don't!"
The young man continued to blush. "No—you must do me justice. You've not made a mistake about me—I see in your proposal all, I think, that you can desire I should. Only you see it much more simply—and yet I can't just now explain. If it were so simple I should say
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