BOOK SEVENTH: MITCHY
"That's what I mean," said Nanda.
"I see, I see—most charming of him." Vanderbank kept his high head thrown back, as if for the view, with a bright, equal, general interest, of everything that was before them, whether talked of or seen. "Who do you think I yesterday had a letter from? An extraordinary funny one from Harold. He gave me all the family news."
"And what is the family news?" the girl after a minute inquired.
"Well, the first great item is that he himself—"
"Wanted," Nanda broke in, "to borrow five pounds of you? I say that," she added, "because if he wrote to you—"
"It couldn't have been, in such a case, for the simple pleasure of the intercourse?" Vanderbank hesitated, but continued not to look at her. "What do you know, pray, of poor Harold's borrowings?"
"Oh, I know as I know other things. Don't I know everything?"
"Do you? I should rather ask," the young man gaily enough replied.
"Why should I not? How should I not? You know what I know." Then, as if to explain herself and attenuate a little the sudden emphasis with which she had spoken: "I remember you once telling me that I must take in things at my pores."
Her companion stared, but, with his laugh, again changed his posture. "That you 'must'—?"
"That I do— and you were quite right."
"And when did I make this extraordinary charge?"
"Ah then," said Nanda, "you admit it is a charge. It was a long time ago—when I was a little girl. Which made it worse!" she dropped.
It made it, at all events, now, for Vanderbank, more amusing. "Ah, not worse—better!"
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