BOOK SEVENTH: MITCHY
understand, I think, how it happened that I haven't kept my own counsel."
"Oh, but you have—didn't he at least feel?—or perhaps even have done better, when you've two such excellent persons to keep it for you? Can't he easily believe how we feel with you?"
Vanderbank appeared for a minute to leave this appeal unheeded; he continued to stare into the garden while he smoked and swung the long leg he had thrown over the arm of the chair. When he at last spoke, however, it was with some emphasis—perhaps even with some vulgarity. "Oh rot!"
Mitchy hovered without an arrest. "You mean he can't feel—?"
"I mean it isn't true. I've no illusions about you. I know how you're both affected, though I of course perfectly trust you."
Mitchy had a short silence. "Trust us not to speak?"
"Not to speak to Nanda herself—though of course, too, if you spoke to others," Vanderbank went on, "they would immediately rush and tell her."
"I've spoken to no one," said Mitchy.
"I'm sure of it. And neither has Mrs. Brook."
"I'm glad you're sure of that also," Mitchy returned, "for it's only doing her justice."
"Oh, I'm quite confident of it," said Vanderbank.
"And without asking her?"
"Perfectly."
"And you're equally sure, without asking, that I haven't betrayed you?" After which, while, as if to let the question lie there in its folly, Vanderbank said nothing, his friend pursued: "I came, I must tell you, terribly near it to-day."
"Why must you tell me? Your coming 'near' doesn't concern me, and I take it you don't suppose I'm watching or sounding you. Mrs. Brook will have come terri-
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