“By accident, my dear,” her mother replied, “I do quite hope. But what on earth did you bring it for? It’s too hideous.” Nanda seemed to wonder. “Is it?” she murmured. “Then you haven’t read it?” She just hesitated. “One hardly knows now, I think, what is and what isn’t.” “She brought it only for ME to read,” Tishy gravely interposed. Mrs. Brook looked strange. “Nanda RECOMMENDED it?” “Oh no--the contrary.” Tishy, as if scared by so much publicity, floundered a little. “She only told me--” “The awful subject?” Mrs. Brook wailed. There was so deepening an echo of the drollery of this last passage that it was a minute before Vanderbank could be heard saying: “The responsibility’s wholly mine for setting the beastly thing in motion. Still,” he added good-humouredly and as to minimise if not the cause at least the consequence, “I think I agree with Nanda that it’s no worse than anything else.” Mrs. Brook had recovered the volume from Mr. Longdon’s relaxed hand and now, without another glance at it, held it behind her with an unusual air of firmness. “Oh how can you say that, my dear man, of anything so revolting?” The discussion kept them for the instant well face to face. “Then did YOU read it?” She debated, jerking the book into the nearest empty chair, where Mr. Cashmore quickly pounced on it. “Wasn’t it for that you brought it me?” she demanded. Yet before he could answer she again challenged her child. “Have you read this work, Nanda?” “Yes mamma.” “Oh I say!” cried Mr. Cashmore, hilarious and turning the leaves. Mr. Longdon had by this time ceremoniously approached Tishy. “Good-night.” BOOK NINTH. VANDERBANK I “I think you had better wait,” Mrs. Brook said, “till I see if he has gone;” and on the arrival the next moment of the servants with the tea she was able to put her question. “Is Mr. Cashmore still with Miss Brookenham?” “No, ma’am,” the footman replied. “I let Mr. Cashmore out five minutes ago.” Vanderbank showed for the next short time by his behaviour what he felt at not yet being free to act on this; moving pointlessly about the room while the servants arranged the tea-table and taking no trouble to make, for appearance, any other talk. Mrs. Brook, on her side, took so little that the silence--which their temporary companions had all the effect of keeping up by conscious dawdling--became precisely one of those precious lights for the circle belowstairs which people fondly fancy they have not kindled when they have not spoken. But Vanderbank spoke again as soon as the door was closed. “Does he run in and out that way without even speaking to YOU?” Mrs. Brook turned away from the fire that, late in May, was the only charm of the crude cold afternoon. “One would like to draw the curtains, wouldn’t one? and gossip in the glow of the hearth.” “Oh ‘gossip’!” Vanderbank wearily said as he came to her pretty table. In the act of serving him she checked herself. “You wouldn’t rather have it with HER?”