THE AWKWARD AGE
tion, he gave himself the pleasure of freely unfolding his idea—"staring, glaring, obvious, knock-down, beauty, as plain as a poster on a wall, an advertisement of soap or whiskey, something that speaks to the crowd and crosses the foot-lights, fetches such a price in the market that the absence of it, for a woman with a girl to marry, inspires endless terrors and constitutes for the wretched pair—to speak of mother and daughter alone—a sort of social bankruptcy. London doesn't love the latent or the lurking, has neither time, nor taste, nor sense for anything less discernible than the red flag in front of the steam-roller. It wants cash over the counter and letters ten feet high. Therefore, you see, it's all, as yet, rather a dark question for poor Nanda—a question that, in a way, quite occupies the foreground of her mother's earnest little life. How will she look, what will be thought of her and what will she be able to do for herself? She's at the age when the whole thing—speaking of her appearance, her possible share of good looks—is still, in a manner, in a fog. But everything depends on it."
Mr. Longdon, by this time, had come back to him. "Excuse my asking it again—for you take such Jumps: what, once more, do you mean by everything?"
"Why, naturally, her marrying. Above all her marrying early."
Mr. Longdon stood before the sofa. "What do you mean by early?"
"Well, we do, doubtless, get up later than at Beccles; but that gives us, you see, shorter days. I mean in a couple of seasons. Soon enough," Vanderbank developed, "to limit the strain—" He broke down, in gayety, at his friend's expression.
"What do you mean by the strain?"
"Well, the complication of her being there."
"Being where?"
"You do put one through!" Vanderbank laughed.
22
