THE AWKWARD AGE
garden is like a dinner in a house where the person—the person of the house—thoroughly knows and cares."
"I see. And he sends you dishes from the table."
"Often—every week. That is, now that he's in town, his gardener does it."
"Charming of them both!" Vanderbank exclaimed. "But his gardener—that extraordinarily tall fellow with the long red beard—was almost as nice as himself, had talks with him too, and I remember every word he said. I remember he told me you asked questions that showed 'a deal of study.' But I thought I had never seen, all round, such a charming lot of people—I mean as those, down there, that our friend has got about him. It's an awfully good note for a man, pleasant servants, always think, don't you? Mr. Longdon's—and quite without their saying anything; just from the sort of type and manner they had—struck me as a kind of chorus of praise. The same with Mitchy's, at Mertle, I remember," Van rambled on. "Mitchy's the sort of chap who might have awful ones, but I recollect telling him that one quite felt as if it were with them one had come to stay. Good note, good note," he cheerfully repeated. "I'm bound to say, you know," he continued in this key, "that you've a jolly sense for getting in with people who make you comfortable. Then, by-the-way, he's still in town?"
Nanda hesitated. "Do you mean Mr. Mitchy?"
"Oh, he is, I know—I met them two nights ago; and by-the-way again—don't let me forget—I want to speak to you about his wife. But I've not seen, do you know? Mr. Longdon—which is really too awful. Twice, thrice I think, have I at moments like this one snatched myself from pressure; but there's no finding the old demon at any earthly hour. When do you go—or does he only come here? Of course I see you've got the place arranged for him. When I asked at his hotel at what hour he ever was in, blest if the fellow didn't say 'Very often, sir,
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