“Then she has become for him what we’ve most hoped her to be--an object of compassion still more marked.” “Is that what you’ve hoped her to be?” Mrs. Brook was obviously so lucid for herself that her renewed expression of impatience had plenty of point. “How can you ask after seeing what I did--” “That night at Mrs. Grendon’s? Well, it’s the first time I HAVE asked it.” Mrs. Brook had a silence more pregnant. “It’s for being with US that he pities her.” Edward thought. “With me too?” “Not so much--but still you help.” “I thought you thought I didn’t--that night.” “At Tishy’s? Oh you didn’t matter,” said Mrs. Brook. “Everything, every one helps. Harold distinctly”--she seemed to figure it all out--“and even the poor children, I dare say, a little. Oh but every one”--she warmed to the vision--“it’s perfect. Jane immensely, par example. Almost all the others who come to the house. Cashmore, Carrie, Tishy, Fanny--bless their hearts all!--each in their degree.” Edward Brookenham had under the influence of this demonstration gradually risen from his seat, and as his wife approached that part of her process which might be expected to furnish the proof he placed himself before her with his back to the fire. “And Mitchy, I suppose?” But he was out. “No. Mitchy’s different.” He wondered. “Different?” “Not a help. Quite a drawback.” Then as his face told how these WERE involutions, “You needn’t understand, but you can believe me,” she added. “The one who does most is of course Van himself.” It was a statement by which his failure to apprehend was not diminished, and she completed her operation. “By not liking her.” Edward’s gloom, on this, was not quite blankness, yet it was dense. “Do you like his not liking her?” “Dear no. No better than HE does.” “And he doesn’t--?” “Oh he hates it.” “Of course I haven’t asked him,” Edward appeared to say more to himself than to his wife. “And of course I haven’t,” she returned--not at all in this case, plainly, for herself. “But I know it. He’d like her if he could, but he can’t. That,” Mrs. Brook wound up, “is what makes it sure.” There was at last in Edward’s gravity a positive pathos. “Sure he won’t propose?” “Sure Mr. Longdon won’t now throw her over.” “Of course if it IS sure--” “Well?” “Why, it is. But of course if it isn’t--” “Well?” “Why, she won’t have anything. Anything but US,” he continued to reflect. “Unless, you know, you’re working it on a certainty--!” “That’s just what I AM working it on. I did nothing till I knew I was safe.” “‘Safe’?” he ambiguously echoed while on this their eyes met longer. “Safe. I knew he’d stick.” “But how did you know Van wouldn’t?” “No matter ‘how’--but better still. He hasn’t stuck.” She said it very simply, but she turned away from him. His eyes for a little followed her. “We don’t KNOW, after all, the old boy’s means.” “I don’t know what you mean by ‘we’ don’t. Nanda does.” “But where’s the support if she doesn’t tell us?”