BOOK NINTH: VANDERBANK
"Oh, he hates it."
"Of course I haven't asked him," Edward appeared to say more to himself than to his wife. "And of course I haven't," she returned—not at all in this case, plainly, for herself. "But I know it. He'd like her if he could, but he can't. That," Mrs. Brook wound up, "is what makes it sure."
There was at last in Edward's gravity a positive pathos. "Sure he won't propose?"
"Sure Mr. Longdon won't now throw her over."
"Of course if it is sure—"
"Well?"
"Why, it is. But of course if it isn't—"
"Well?"
"Why, she won't have anything. Anything but us," he continued to reflect. "Unless, you know, you're working it on a certainty—"
"That's just what I am working it on. I did nothing till I knew I was safe."
"'Safe'?" he ambiguously echoed, while, on this, their eyes met longer.
"Safe. I knew he would stick."
"But how did you know Van wouldn't?"
"No matter 'how'—but better still. He hasn't stuck." She said it very simply, but she turned away from him.
His eyes, for a little, followed her. "We don't know, after all, the old chap's means."
"I don't know what you mean by 'we' don't. Nanda does."
"But where's the support if she doesn't tell us?"
Mrs. Brook, who had faced about, again turned from him. "I hope you don't forget," she remarked with superiority, "that we don't ask her."
"You don't?" Edward gloomed.
"Never. But I trust her."
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