“No; the existence simply of my knowledge of your idea.” “I suppose I’m bound to keep in mind in fairness the existence of my own knowledge of yours.” But Mitchy gave that the go-by. “Oh I’ve so many ‘ideas’! I’m always getting hold of some new one and for the most part trying it--generally to let it go as a failure. Yes, I had one six months ago. I tried that. I’m trying it still.” “Then I hope,” said Mr. Longdon with a gaiety slightly strained, “that, contrary to your usual rule, it’s a success.” It was a gaiety, for that matter, that Mitchy’s could match. “It does promise well! But I’ve another idea even now, and it’s just what I’m again trying.” “On me?” Mr. Longdon still somewhat extravagantly smiled. Mitchy thought. “Well, on two or three persons, of whom you ARE the first for me to tackle. But what I must begin with is having from you that you recognise she trusts us.” Mitchy’s idea after an instant had visibly gone further. “Both of them--the two women up there at present so strangely together. Mrs. Brook must too; immensely. But for that you won’t care.” Mr. Longdon had relapsed into an anxiety more natural than his expression of a moment before. “It’s about time! But if Nanda didn’t trust us,” he went on, “her case would indeed be a sorry one. She has nobody else to trust.” “Yes.” Mitchy’s concurrence was grave. “Only you and me.” “Only you and me.” The eyes of the two men met over it in a pause terminated at last by Mitchy’s saying: “We must make it all up to her.” “Is that your idea?” “Ah,” said Mitchy gently, “don’t laugh at it.” His friend’s grey gloom again covered him. “But what CAN--?” Then as Mitchy showed a face that seemed to wince with a silent “What COULD?” the old man completed his objection. “Think of the magnitude of the loss.” “Oh I don’t for a moment suggest,” Mitchy hastened to reply, “that it isn’t immense.” “She does care for him, you know,” said Mr. Longdon. Mitchy, at this, gave a wide, prolonged glare. “‘Know’--?” he ever so delicately murmured. His irony had quite touched. “But of course you know! You know everything--Nanda and you.” There was a tone in it that moved a spring, and Mitchy laughed out. “I like your putting me with her! But we’re all together. With Nanda,” he next added, “it IS deep.” His companion took it from him. “Deep.” “And yet somehow it isn’t abject.” The old man wondered. “‘Abject’?” “I mean it isn’t pitiful. In its way,” Mitchy developed, “it’s happy.” This too, though rather ruefully, Mr. Longdon could take from him. “Yes--in its way.” “Any passion so great, so complete,” Mitchy went on, “is--satisfied or unsatisfied--a life.” Mr. Longdon looked so interested that his fellow visitor, evidently stirred by what was now an appeal and a dependence, grew still more bland, or at least more assured, for affirmation. “She’s not TOO sorry for herself.” “Ah she’s so proud!” “Yes, but that’s a help.” “Oh--not for US!”