BOOK EIGHTH: TISHY GRENDON
that, months ago—I remember now—I lent to your mother."
"Oh, a thing in a blue cover? I remember then too." Nanda's face cleared up. "I had forgotten it was lying about here, but I must have brought it—in fact, I remember I did—for Tishy. And I wrote your name on it so that we might know—"
"That I hadn't lent it to either of you? It didn't occur to you to write your own?" Vanderbank went on.
"Well, but if it isn't mine? It isn't mine, I'm sure."
"Therefore, also, if it can't be Tishy's—"
"It's simple enough—it's mother's."
"'Simple'?" Vanderbank laughed. "I like you! And may I ask if you've read the work?"
"Oh yes." Then she wonderfully said: "For Tishy."
"To see if it would do?"
"I've often done that," the girl returned.
"And she takes your word?"
"Generally. I think I remember she did that time."
Vanderbank hesitated. "And read the thing?"
"Oh, no!" said Nanda.
He looked at her a moment longer. "You're too particular!" he rather oddly sounded, turning away with it to meet Mr. Longdon.
XXVIII
When, after dinner, the company was restored to the upper rooms, the Duchess was on her feet as soon as the door opened for the entrance of the gentlemen. Then it might have been seen that she had a purpose, for after the elements had again, with a due amount of the usual shuffling and mismatching, been mixed, her case proved the first to have been settled. She had got Mr. Longdon beside her on a sofa that was just right for two.
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