Owen looked out into Raphael Road. "She did care for me awfully. But she can't stand the strain." 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.!

"I should think you might, with half your things here! It's Poynton itself—almost. Good-bye, Mr. Gereth," Fleda added. Her intention had naturally been that the neat young woman, opening the front door, should remain to close it on the departing guest. That functionary, however, had acutely vanished behind a stiff flap of green baize which Mrs. Gereth had not yet had time to abolish. Fleda put out her hand, but Owen turned away—he couldn't find his umbrella. She passed into the open air—she was determined to get him out; and in a moment he joined her in the little plastered portico which had small resemblance to any feature of Poynton. It was, as Mrs. Gereth had said, like the portico of a house in Brompton. "Oh, if you count the ghosts!"

"Mine?" Fleda looked vague. Again our young lady reflected. "I think I'm rather glad you didn't." "Oh no, we haven't quarreled a bit!" Then with a smile: "We've only diverged."