BOOK NINTH: VANDERBANK
Mr. Longdon's voice. "I knew it, of course, after all. It was what I came up for. That night, before you went, at Mrs. Grendon's—"
"Yes?"—Mitchy was with him again.
"Well, it made me see the future. It was then already too late."
Mitchy assented with emphasis. "Too late. She was spoiled for him."
If Mr. Longdon had to take it, he. took it at least quietly, only saying after a time: "And her mother isn't?"
"Oh yes. Quite."
"And does she know it?"
"Yes, but doesn't mind. She resembles you and me. She 'still likes' him."
"But what good will that do her?"
Mitchy sketched a shrug. "What good does it do us?"
Mr. Longdon thought. "We can at least respect ourselves."
"Can we?" Mitchy smiled.
"And he can respect us," his friend, as if not hearing him, went on.
Mitchy seemed almost to demur. "He must think we're queer."
"Well, Mrs. Brook's worse than 'queer.' He can't respect her."
"Oh, that will be perhaps," Mitchy laughed, "what she'll get just most out of!" It was the first time, however, of Mr. Longdon's showing that, even after a minute, he had not understood him; so that, as quickly as possible, he passed to another point. "If you do anything, may I be in it?"
"But what can I do? If it's over it's over."
"For him, yes. But not for her or for you or for me."
"Oh, I'm not for long!" the old man wearily said,
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