Owen weighed her question as if he felt the responsibility of his answer. But that answer came in a moment, and, as Fleda could see, out of a wealth of memory. "She never wanted them particularly till they seemed to be in danger. Now she has an idea about them; and when she gets hold of an idea—Oh dear me!" He broke off, pausing and looking away as with a sense of the futility of expression: it was the first time Fleda had ever heard him explain a matter so pointedly or embark at all on a generalization. It was striking, it was touching to her, as he faltered, that he appeared but half capable of floating his generalization to the end. The girl, however, was so far competent to fill up his blank as that she had divined, on the occasion of Mona's visit to Poynton, what would happen in the event of the accident at which he glanced. She had there with her own eyes seen Owen's betrothed get hold of an idea. "I say, you know, do give me some tea!" he went on irrelevantly and familiarly. Fleda opened her eyes. "She went down to Ricks?"!

"To his club, do you mean?" "To you, of course—to enjoy, to keep for yourself."

"For me?" Fleda stared. "Before he has even married her?" Fleda thought an instant. "You mean makes her hesitate to keep you—not hesitate to renounce you?" "No, nor love me," said Owen. "Of course, you know, she says she loves me."