“To make what?”
“Why, that he has not, for so long, been to see you or written to you. That he has seemed to neglect you.”
Nanda’s visitor looked so far about as to take the neighbourhood in general into the confidence of his surprise. “To neglect ME?”
“Well, others too, I believe—with whom we’re not concerned. He has been so taken up. But you above all.”
Mr. Longdon showed on this a coldness that somehow spoke for itself as the greatest with which he had ever in his life met an act of reparation and that was infinitely confirmed by his sustained immobility. “But of what have I complained?”
“Oh I don’t think he fancies you’ve complained.”
“And how could he have come to see me,” he continued, “when for so many months past I’ve been so little in town?”
He was not more ready with objections, however, than his companion had by this time become with answers. “He must have been thinking of the time of your present stay. He evidently has you much on his mind—he spoke of not having seen you.”
“He has quite sufficiently tried—he has left cards,” Mr. Longdon returned. “What more does he want?”
Nanda looked at him with her long grave straight-ness, which had often a play of light beyond any smile. “Oh, you know, he does want more.”