“I must have been at school--at 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 in--what 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 him--it was supposed to be for his benefit.” Mr. Longdon listened with a visible recovery. “He used to talk to me--I remember he asked me questions I couldn’t answer and made me dreadfully ashamed. But I lent him books--partly, upon my honour, to make him think that as I had them I did know something. He read everything and had a lot to say about it. I used to tell your mother he had a great future.” Vanderbank shook his head sadly and kindly. “So he had. And you remember Nancy, who was handsome and who was usually with them?” he went on. Mr. Longdon looked so uncertain that he explained he meant his other sister; on which his companion said: “Oh her? Yes, she was charming--she evidently had a future too.” “Well, she’s in the midst of her future now. She’s married.” “And whom did she marry?” “A fellow called Toovey. A man in the City.” “Oh!” said Mr. Longdon a little blankly. Then as if to retrieve his blankness: “But why do you call her Nancy? Wasn’t her name Blanche?” “Exactly--Blanche Bertha Vanderbank.” Mr. Longdon looked half-mystified and half-distressed. “And now she’s Nancy Toovey?” Vanderbank broke into laughter at his dismay. “That’s what every one calls her.” “But why?” “Nobody knows. You see you were right about her future.” Mr. Longdon gave another of his soft smothered sighs; he had turned back again to the first photograph, which he looked at for a longer time. “Well, it wasn’t HER way.” “My mother’s? No indeed. Oh my mother’s way--!” Vanderbank waited, then added gravely: “She was taken in time.” Mr. Longdon turned half-round as to reply to this, but instead of replying proceeded afresh to an examination of the expressive oval in the red plush frame. He took up little Aggie, who appeared to interest him, and abruptly observed: “Nanda isn’t so pretty.” “No, not nearly. There’s a great question whether Nanda’s pretty at all.” Mr. Longdon continued to inspect her more favoured friend; which led him after a moment to bring out: “She ought to be, you know. Her grandmother was.” “Oh and her mother,” Vanderbank threw in. “Don’t you think Mrs. Brookenham lovely?” Mr. Longdon kept him waiting a little. “Not so lovely as Lady Julia. Lady Julia had--!” He faltered; then, as if there were too much to say, disposed of the question. “Lady Julia had everything.” Vanderbank gathered hence an impression that determined him more and more to diplomacy. “But isn’t that just what Mrs. Brookenham has?”