BOOK TENTH: NANDA
"No," she answered: "that's what I call wild."
He had risen with his inquiry, and after her reply he remained a moment on the spot. "See—I've frightened you. It proves as easy as that. But I only wanted to show you and to be sure for myself. Now that I've the mental certitude I shall never wish otherwise to use it." He turned away to begin again one of his absorbed revolutions. "Mr. Longdon has asked you this time for a grand public adhesion, and what he turns up for now is to receive your ultimatum? A final, irrevocable flight with him is the line he advises, and he'll be ready for it on the spot with the post-chaise and the pistols?"
The image appeared really to have for Nanda a certain vividness, and she looked at it a space without a hint of a smile. "We sha'n't need any pistols, whatever may be decided about the post-chaise; and any flight we may undertake together will need no cover of secrecy or night. Mother, as I've told you—"
"Won't fling herself across your reckless path? I remember," said Mitchy—"you alluded to her magnificent resignation. But father?" he oddly inquired.
Nanda thought for this a moment longer. "Well, Mr. Longdon has—off in the country—a good deal of shooting."
"So that Edward can sometimes come down with his old gun? Good then too—if it isn't, as he takes you by the way, to shoot you. You've got it all shipshape and arranged, in other words, and have only, if the fancy does move you, to clear out. You clear out—you make all sorts of room. It is interesting," Mitchy exclaimed, "arriving thus with you at the depths! I look all round and see every one squared and every one but one or two suited. Why then reflection and delay?"
"You don't, dear Mr. Mitchy," Nanda took her time to return, "know nearly as much as you think."
"But isn't my question absolutely a confession of
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