THE AWKWARD AGE
so directly profited, against a certain compassion also for Mrs. Brook's upset. As a good-natured woman I feel, in short, for both of them; I deplore, all round, what's after all rather a sad relation. Only, as I tell you, Nanda's the one, I naturally say to myself, for me now most to think of: if I don't assume too much, that is, that you don't suffer by my freedom."
Mr. Longdon put by with a mere drop of his eyes the question of his suffering: there was so clearly, for him, an issue more relevant. "What do you know of my 'plan'?"
"Why, my dear man, haven't I told you that ever since Mertle, I've made out your hand? What on earth, for other people, can your action look like but an adoption?"
"Of—a—him?"
"You're delightful. Of—a—her! If it does come to the same thing for you, so much the better. That, at any rate, is what we're all taking it for, and Mrs. Brook herself en tête. She sees—through your generosity—Nanda's life, more or less, at the worst, arranged for, and that's just what gives her a good conscience."
If Mr. Longdon breathed rather hard it seemed to show at least that he followed. "What does she want of a good conscience?"
From under her high tiara, an instant, she almost looked down at him. "Ah, you do hate her!"
He colored, but held his ground. "Don't you tell me yourself she's to be feared?"
"Yes, and watched. But—if possible—with amusement."
"Amusement?" Mr. Longdon faintly gasped.
"Look at her now," his friend went on with an indication that was indeed easy to embrace. Separated from them by the width of the room, Mrs. Brook was, though placed in profile, fully presented; the satisfaction with
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