BOOK SEVENTH: MITCHY
immediate answer was to walk and walk. "I want so awfully to be kind to her," he at last said.
"I should think so!" Then, with irrelevance, Mitchy harked back. "Shall I inquire?"
But Vanderbank, with another thought, had lost the thread. "Inquire what?"
"Why, if she does get anything—"
"If I'm not kind enough?"—Van had caught up again. "Dear no; I'd rather you wouldn't speak unless first spoken to."
"Well, he may speak—since he knows we know."
"It isn't likely, for he can't make out why I told you."
"You didn't tell me, you know," said Mitchy. "You told Mrs. Brook."
"Well, she told you, and her talking about it is the unpleasant idea. He does dislike her so."
"Poor Mrs. Brook!" Mitchy meditated.
"Poor Mrs. Brook!" his companion echoed.
"But I thought you said," he went on, "that he doesn't mind."
"Your knowing? Well, I dare say he doesn't. But he doesn't want a lot of gossip and chatter."
"Oh!" said Mitchy with meekness.
"I may absolutely take it from you then," Vanderbank presently resumed, "that Nanda has her idea?"
"Oh, she didn't tell me so. But it's none the less my belief."
"Well," Vanderbank at last threw off, "I feel it for myself. If only because she knows everything," he pursued without looking at Mitchy. "She knows everything, everything."
"Everything, everything." Mitchy got up.
"She told me so herself yesterday," said Van.
"And she told me so to-day."
Vanderbank's hesitation might have shown he was
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