“Oh I only made it,” Vanderbank said, “in reference to his modesty.” Beyond the lawn the house was before him, old, square, red-roofed, well assured of its right to the place it took up in the world. This was a considerable space--in the little world at least of Suffolk--and the look of possession had everywhere mixed with it, in the form of old windows and doors, the tone of old red surfaces, the style of old white facings, the age of old high creepers, the long confirmation of time. Suggestive of panelled rooms, of precious mahogany, of portraits of women dead, of coloured china glimmering through glass doors and delicate silver reflected on bared tables, the thing was one of those impressions of a particular period that it takes two centuries to produce. “Fancy,” the young man incoherently exclaimed, “his caring to leave anything so loveable as all this to come up and live with US!” The girl also for a little lost herself. “Oh you don’t know what it is--the charm comes out so as one stays. Little by little it grows and grows. There are old things everywhere that are too delightful. He lets me explore so--he lets me rummage and rifle. Every day I make discoveries.” Vanderbank wondered as he smoked. “You mean he lets you take things--?” “Oh yes--up to my room, to study or to copy. There are old patterns that are too dear for anything. It’s when you live with them, you see, that you know. Everything in the place is such good company.” “Your mother ought to be here,” Vanderbank presently suggested. “She’s so fond of good company.” Then as Nanda answered nothing he went on: “Was your grandmother ever?” “Never,” the girl promptly said. “Never,” she repeated in a tone quite different. After which she added: “I’m the only one.” “Oh, and I ‘me and you,’ as they say,” her companion amended. “Yes, and Mr. Mitchy, who’s to come down--please don’t forget--this afternoon.” Vanderbank had another of his contemplative pauses. “Thank you for reminding me. I shall spread myself as much as possible before he comes--try to produce so much of my effect that I shall be safe. But what did Mr. Longdon ask him for?” “Ah,” said Nanda gaily, “what did he ask YOU for?” “Why, for the reason you just now mentioned--that his interest in me is so uncontrollable.” “Then isn’t his interest in Mitchy--” “Of the same general order?” Vanderbank broke in. “Not in the least.” He seemed to look for a way to express the distinction--which suddenly occurred to him. “He wasn’t in love with Mitchy’s mother.” “No”--Nanda turned it over. “Mitchy’s mother, it appears, was awful. Mr. Cashmore knew her.” 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.”