"What bearing have her feelings, pray?" Fleda asked. "That you had had a long talk with me, without seeing your mother at all?"!

"But she'll only have been here a few minutes. What sort of a visit is that?" Fleda cried. Fleda hesitated; she had not foreseen that so simple an inquiry could disconcert her. "I'm afraid I don't know."

"A great mistake! That's all right." He spoke—it wasn't clear to her why—as if this declaration were a great point gained. "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. Fleda paid this statement the homage of a minute's muteness. "As to that, naturally, she has reason."