Mrs. Gereth reflected. "Very likely." Then she too hesitated. "The question is if it was worse than yours." She couldn't, however, succeed for so very many minutes in deferring her exposure. "Why didn't you wait, dearest? Ah, why didn't you wait?"—if that inconsequent appeal kept rising to her lips to be cut short before it was spoken, this was only because at first the humility of gratitude helped her to gain time, enabled her to present herself very honestly as too overcome to be clear. She kissed her companion's hands, she did homage at her feet, she murmured soft snatches of praise, and yet in the midst of it all was conscious that what she really showed most was the wan despair at her heart. She saw Mrs. Gereth's glimpse of this despair suddenly widen, heard the quick chill of her voice pierce through the false courage of endearments. "Do you mean to tell me at such an hour as this that you've really lost him?"!

This was a transaction that Fleda, after a moment, had to give up trying to represent to herself. "If she won't do that—?" she went on. "What did she mean by that?"

"They're beyond me—I give it up," said Mrs. Gereth. "I dare say she won't like it at all." "She would if Owen had described your outbreak to Mona."