BOOK SEVENTH: MITCHY
Vanderbank's smoke-puffs were profuse and his pauses frequent. "Awful to Mr. Cashmore? I'm glad to hear it—he must have deserved it. But I believe in her, all the same. Mitchy's often awful himself," the young man rambled on. "Just so I believe in him."
"So do I," said Nanda—"and that's why I asked him."
"You asked him, my dear child? Have you the inviting?"
"Oh yes."
The eyes he turned on her seemed really to ask if she jested or were serious. "So you arranged for me too?"
She turned over again a few leaves of his book and, closing it with something of a clap, transferred it to the bench beside him—a movement in which, as if through a drop into thought, he rendered her no assistance. "What I mean is that I proposed it to Mr. Longdon, I suggested he should be asked. I've a reason for seeing him—I want to talk to him. And do you know," the girl went on, "what Mr. Longdon said?"
"Something splendid, of course."
"He asked if you wouldn't perhaps dislike his being here with you."
Vanderbank, throwing back his head, laughed, smoked, jogged his foot more than ever. "Awfully nice. Dear old Mitch! How little afraid of him you are!"
Nanda wondered. "Of Mitch?"
"Yes, of the tremendous pull he really has. It's all very well to talk—he has it. But of course I don't mean I don't know"—and, as with the effect of his nervous sociability, he shifted his position. "I perfectly see that you're not afraid. I perfectly know what you have in your head. I should never in the least dream of accusing you—as far as he is concerned—of the least disposition to flirt; any more indeed," Vanderbank pleasantly pursued, "than even of any general tendency of that sort. No, my dear Nanda"—he kindly kept it up—"I
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