There might by this time, in the growing interest of their talk, have
been almost nothing too uncanny for Mr. Longdon to fear it. "You mean
the youngsters are--unfortunate?"

"No--they're only, like all the modern young, I think, mysteries,
terrible little baffling mysteries." Vanderbank had found amusement
again--it flickered so from his friend's face that, really at moments to
the point of alarm, his explanations deepened darkness. Then with more
interest he harked back. "I know the thing you just mentioned--the thing
that strikes you as odd." He produced his knowledge quite with elation.
"The talk." Mr. Longdon on this only looked at him in silence and
harder, but he went on with assurance: "Yes, the talk--for we do talk, I
think." Still his guest left him without relief, only fixing him and his
suggestion with a suspended judgement. Whatever the old man was on the
point of saying, however, he disposed of in a curtailed murmur; he had
already turned afresh to the series of portraits, and as he glanced at
another Vanderbank spoke afresh.

"It was very interesting to me to hear from you there, when the ladies
had left us, how many old threads you were prepared to pick up."

Mr. Longdon had paused. "I'm an old boy who remembers the mothers," he
at last replied.

"Yes, you told me how well you remember Mrs. Brookenham's."

"Oh, oh!"--and he arrived at a new subject. "This must be your sister
Mary."

"Yes; it's very bad, but as she's dead--"