"In seven minutes." "So it appears."!

"You've diverged uncommonly far!"—Owen laughed back. Fleda, with her hideous crockery and her father's collections, could conceive that these objects, to her visitor's perception even more strongly than to her own, measured the length of the swing from Poynton and Ricks; she was aware too that her high standards figured vividly enough even to Owen's simplicity to make him reflect that West Kensington was a tremendous fall. If she had fallen it was because she had acted for him. She was all the more content he should thus see she had acted, as the cost of it, in his eyes, was none of her own showing. "What seems to have happened," he exclaimed, "is that you've had a row with her and yet not moved her!" Mrs. Gereth took her up with a cold smile that seemed the warning of experience against hyperbole. "As long as what, please?"

Fleda hesitated. "She's rankling under the sense of her wrong." "Burning still, miss. Ain't it quite too dreadful? Took early this morning—the whole place is up there." "On the occasion, at papa's, that Mrs. Brigstock told you of, and one day, since then, down at Maggie's."