BOOK FIRST: LADY JULIA
Vanderbank shook his head sadly and kindly. "So he had. And you remember Nancy, who was handsome, and who was usually with them?" he went on.
Mr. Longdon looked so uncertain that he explained he meant his other sister; on which his companion said: "Oh, her? Yes, she was charming—she evidently had a future too."
"Well, she's in the midst of it now. She's married."
"And whom did she marry?"
"A fellow called Toovey. A man in the City."
"Oh!" said Mr. Longdon a little blankly. Then, as if to retrieve his blankness: "But why do you call her Nancy? Wasn't her name Blanche?"
"Exactly—Blanche Bertha Vanderbank."
Mr. Longdon looked half mystified and half distressed. "And now she's Nancy Toovey?"
Vanderbank broke into laughter at his dismay. "That's what every one calls her."
"But why?"
"Nobody knows. You see you were right about her future."
Mr. Longdon gave another of his soft, smothered sighs; he had turned back again to the first photograph, which he looked at for a longer time. "Well, it wasn't her way."
"My mother's? No indeed. Oh, my mother's way—!" Vanderbank waited, then added gravely: "She was taken in time."
Mr. Longdon turned half round and looked as if he were about to reply to this; but instead of so doing he proceeded afresh to an examination of the expressive oval in the red plush frame. He took up little Aggie, who appeared to interest him, and abruptly observed: "Nanda isn't so pretty."
"No, not nearly. There's a great question whether Nanda is pretty at all."
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