BOOK TENTH: NANDA
"And what interest have I in any such person?"
"But your interest in me— you see well enough where that lands us."
Mr. Longdon now got to his feet and somewhat stiffly remained; after which, for all answer, "You say you will come then?" he asked. Then as—seemingly with her last thought—she kept silent: "You understand clearly, I take it, that this time it's never again to leave me—or to be left."
"I understand," she presently replied. "Never again. That," she continued, "is why I asked you for these days."
"Well then, since you've taken them—"
"Ah, but have you?" said Nanda. They were close to each other now, and with a tenderness of warning that was helped by their almost equal stature she laid her hand upon his shoulder. "What I did more than anything else write to him for," she had now regained her clearness enough to explain, "was that—with whatever idea you had—you should see for yourself how he could come and go."
"And what good was that to do me? Hadn't I seen for myself?"
"Well—you've seen once more. Here he was. I didn't care what he thought. Here I brought him. And his reasons remain."
She kept her eyes on her companion's face, but his own, now and afterwards, seemed to wander far. "What do I care for his reasons so long as they're not mine?"
She thought an instant, still holding him gently and as if for successful argument. "But perhaps you don't altogether understand them."
"And why the devil, altogether, should I?"
"Ah, because you distinctly want to," said Nanda, ever so kindly. "You've admitted as much when we've talked—"
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