Well then, to show how right you are, theres the young lady. He pointed to an object on one of the tables, a small photograph with a very wide border of something that looked like crimson fur.
Mr. Longdon took up the picture; he was serious now. Shes very beautifulbut shes not a little girl.
At Naples they develop early. Shes only seventeen or eighteen, I suppose; but I never know how oldor at least how younggirls are, and Im not sure. An aunt, at any rate, has of course nothing to conceal. She IS extremely prettywith extraordinary red hair and a complexion to match; great rarities I believe, in that race and latitude. She gave me the portraitframe and all. The frame is Neapolitan enough and little Aggies charming. Then Vanderbank subjoined: But not so charming as little Nanda.
Little Nanda?have you got HER? The old man was all eagerness.
Shes over there beside the lampalso a present from the original.
II
Mr. Longdon had gone to the placelittle Nanda was in glazed white wood. He took her up and held her out; for a moment he said nothing, but presently, over his glasses, rested on his host a look intenser even than his scrutiny of the faded image. Do they give their portraits now?
Little girlsinnocent lambs? Surelyto old friends. Didnt they in your time?
Mr. Longdon studied the portrait again; after which, with an exhalation of something between superiority and regret, They never did to me, he returned.
Well, you can have all you want now! Vanderbank laughed.
His friend gave a slow droll headshake. I dont want them now!
You could do with them, my dear sir, still, Vanderbank continued in the same manner, every bit I do!
Im sure you do nothing you oughtnt. Mr. Longdon kept the photograph and continued to look at it. Her mother told me about herpromised me I should see her next time.
You mustshes a great friend of mine.
Mr. Longdon was really deep in it. Is she clever?
Vanderbank turned it over. Well, youll tell me if you think so.
Ah with a child of seventeen! Mr. Longdon murmured it as if in dread of having to pronounce. This one too IS seventeen?
Vanderbank again considered. Eighteen. He just hung fire once more, then brought out: Well, call it nearly nineteen. Ive kept her birthdays, he laughed.
His companion caught at the idea. Upon my honour I should like to! When is the next?
Youve plenty of timethe fifteenth of June.
Im only too sorry to wait. Laying down the object he had been examining Mr. Longdon took another turn about the room, and his manner was such an appeal to his host to accept his restlessness that as he circulated the latter watched him with encouragement. I said to you just now that I knew the mothers, but it would have been more to the point to say the grandmothers. He stopped before his young friend, then nodded at the image of Nanda. I knew HERS. She put it at something less.
Vanderbank rather failed to understand. The old lady? Put what?
Mr. Longdons face showed him as for a moment feeling his way. Im speaking of Mrs. Brookenham. She spoke of her daughter as only sixteen.
Vanderbanks amusement at the tone of this broke out. She usually does! She has done so, I think, for the last year or two.
His visitor dropped upon his sofa as with the weight of something sudden and fresh; then from this place, with a sharp little movement, tossed into the fire the end of a cigarette. Vanderbank offered him another, and as he accepted it and took a light he said: I dont know what youre doing with meI never at home smoke so much! But he puffed away and, seated near, laid his hand on Vanderbanks arm as to help himself to utter something too delicate not to be guarded and yet too important not to be risked. Now thats the sort of thing I did meanas one of my impressions. Vanderbank continued at a loss and he went on: I referif you dont mind my saying soto what you said just now.
Vanderbank was conscious of a deep desire to draw from him whatever might come; so sensible was it somehow that whatever in him was good was also thoroughly personal. But our young friend had to think a minute. I see, I see. Nothings more probable than that Ive said something nasty; but which of my particular horrors?
Well then, your conveying that she makes her daughter out younger!
To make herself out the same? Vanderbank took him straight up. It was nasty my doing that? I see, I see. Yes, yes: I rather gave her away, and youre struck by itas is most delightful you SHOULD bebecause youre in every way of a better tradition and, knowing Mrs. Brookenhams my friend, cant conceive of ones playing on a friend a trick so vulgar and odious. It strikes you also probably as the kind of thing we must be constantly doing; it strikes you that right and left, probably, we keep giving each other away. Well, I dare say we do. Yes, come to think of it, as they say in America, we do. But what shall I tell you? Practically we all know it and allow for it and its as broad as its long. Whats London life after all? Its tit for tat!
Ah but what becomes of friendship? Mr. Longdon earnestly and pleadingly asked, while he still held Vanderbanks arm as if under the spell of the vivid explanation supplied him.
The young man met his eyes only the more sociably. Friendship?
Friendship. Mr. Longdon maintained the full value of the word.
Well, his companion risked, I dare say it isnt in London by any means what it is at Beccles. I quite literally mean that, Vanderbank reassuringly added; I never really have believed in the existence of friendship in big societiesin great towns and great crowds. Its a plant that takes time and space and air; and London society is a huge squash, as we elegantly call itan elbowing pushing perspiring chattering mob.
Ah I dont say THAT of you! the visitor murmured with a withdrawal of his hand and a visible scruple for the sweeping concession he had evoked.
Do say it thenfor Gods sake; let some one say it, so that something or other, whatever it may be, may come of it! Its impossible to say too muchits impossible to say enough. There isnt anything any one can say that I wont agree to.
That shows you really dont care, the old man returned with acuteness.
Oh were past saving, if thats what you mean! Vanderbank laughed.
You dont care, you dont care! his guest repeated, andif I may be frank with youI shouldnt wonder if it were rather a pity.
A pity I dont care?
You ought to, you ought to. And Mr. Longdon paused. May I say all I think?
I assure you I shall! Youre awfully interesting.
So are you, if you come to that. Its just what Ive had in my head. Theres something I seem to make out in you! He abruptly dropped this, however, going on in another way. I remember the rest of you, but why did I never see YOU?
I must have been at schoolat college. Perhaps you did know my brothers, elder and younger.
There was a boy with your mother at Malvern. I was near her there for three months inwhat WAS the year?
Yes, I know, Vanderbank replied while his guest tried to fix the date. It was my brother Miles. He was awfully clever, but had no health, poor chap, and we lost him at seventeen. She used to take houses at such places with himit was supposed to be for his benefit.