"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. Mrs. Gereth watched Fleda and considered. "You haven't any idea if they are waiting for the things?"!

Owen considered; his face seemed to broaden, but not into a smile. "I suppose she's tremendously proud, isn't she?" This might have been the first time it had occurred to him. "For you, of course—to entreat me to give you up. She thinks me awfully designing—that I've taken some sort of possession of you."

"Are you sure?" Mrs. Gereth shook her head with slow austerity. "You don't believe a word you're saying. I've frightened you, as you've frightened me: you're whistling in the dark to keep up our courage. I do simplify, doubtless, if to simplify is to fail to comprehend the insanity of a passion that bewilders a young blockhead with bugaboo barriers, with hideous and monstrous sacrifices. I can only repeat that you're beyond me. Your perversity's a thing to howl over. However," the poor woman continued with a break in her voice, a long hesitation and then the dry triumph of her will, "I'll never mention it to you again! Owen I can just make out; for Owen is a blockhead. Owen's a blockhead," she repeated with a quiet, tragic finality, looking straight into Fleda's eyes. "I don't know why you dress up so the fact that he's disgustingly weak." "You must sit down, then, till I go," said Fleda. "We must find a bench."