"Six months ago? What's the matter with it and why don't you go on?"
"What's the matter with it is more than I can tell you. But I can't go on, because I've lost my model."
Biddy stared an instant. "Is he dead?"
Her brother laughed out at the candid cheerfulness, hopefulness almost, with which this inquiry broke from her. "He's only dead to me. He has gone away."
"Where has he gone?"
"I haven't the least idea."
"Why, have you quarrelled?" Biddy asked.
"Quarrelled? For what do you take us? Does the nightingale quarrel with the moon?"
"I needn't ask which of you is the moon," said Biddy.
"Of course I'm the nightingale. But, more literally," Nick continued, "Nash has melted back into the elements—he is part of the ambient air." Then, as even with this literalness he saw that his sister was mystified, he added: "I have a notion he has gone to India, and at the present moment is reclining on a bank of flowers in the vale of Cashmere."
Biddy was silent a minute, after which she dropped: "Julia will be glad—she dislikes him so."
"If she dislikes him, why should she be glad he's in such a delightful situation?"
"I mean about his going away; she'll be glad of that."
"My poor child, what has Julia to do with it?"
"She has more to do with things than you think," Biddy replied, with some eagerness; but she had no sooner uttered
