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Updated: April 30, 2025
"You think we might have survived that." A new thought of it seemed to glimmer. "I'm bound to say Mitchy's marriage promises elements." "You did it that night at Mrs. Grendon's." He spoke as if he had not heard her. "It was a wonderful performance. You pulled us down just closing with each of the great columns in its turn as Samson pulled down the temple.
"Oh but, darling, Nanda's clean too!" the young lady in question interrupted; on which her fellow guest could only laugh with her as in relief from the antithesis of which her presence of mind had averted the completion, little indeed as in Mrs. Grendon's talk that element of style was usually involved.
Grendon's want of promptness that failed of a welcome: her drawing-room, on the January night, showed its elegance through a suffusion of pink electricity which melted, at the end of the vista, into the faintly golden glow of a retreat still more sacred.
While so engaged he became aware of something else and, quickly facing about, recognised in the doorway of the room the other figure the glass had just reflected. "Oh YOU?" he said with a quick handshake. "Mrs. Grendon's down?"
He had once more his success of hilarity, though not indeed to the injury of the Duchess's next word. "It's Nanda, you know, who speaks, and loud enough, for Harry Grendon's dislikes." "That's easy for her," Mrs. Brook declared, "when she herself isn't one of them." "She isn't surely one of anybody's," Mr. Longdon gravely observed. Mrs. Brook gazed across at him. "You ARE too dear!
"Only I should have expected from the cause you refer to rather the comic effect." "Mrs. Grendon's broken nose, sir," Vanderbank explained to Mr. Longdon, "is only the kinder way taken by these ladies to speak of Mrs. Grendon's broken heart. You must know all about that." "Oh yes ALL." Mr.
Mild as it was, however, Nanda missed the pleasantry. "Mr. Grendon's not here." "Where is he then?" "Yachting but she doesn't know." "Then she and you are just doing this together?" "Well," said Nanda, "she's dreadfully frightened." "Oh she mustn't allow herself," he returned, "to be too much carried away by it. But we're to have your mother?" "Yes, and papa.
Grendon's, where the "cross-references" of the action are as thick as the green leaves of a garden, but none the less, as they have scenically to be, counted and disposed, weighted with responsibility.
"There's nobody too good for you, of course; only you're not quite, don't you know? IN our set. You're in Mrs. Grendon's. I know what you're going to say that she hasn't got any set, that she's just a loose little white flower dropped on the indifferent bosom of the world. But you're the small sprig of tender green that, added to her, makes her immediately 'compose."
"Well, one cares most for one's child." "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?
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