Mrs. Gereth took her up with a cold smile that seemed the warning of experience against hyperbole. "As long as what, please?" "Oh, if you count the ghosts!"!

"I'm very, very tired." Mrs. Gereth's slow head-shake was tragic. "I couldn't do it again." "I see you think she may refuse to discuss it at all," said Owen.

"That's the only answer. It's the answer to everything." So Fleda saw; for a minute she looked over her companion's head and far away. "He wasn't at Waterbath; Mrs. Brigstock must have read your telegram and kept it. But mine, the one to Poynton, brought something. 'We are here—what do you want?'" Mrs. Gereth stopped as if with a failure of voice; on which Fleda sank upon the sofa and made a movement to take her hand. It met no response; there could be no attenuation. Fleda waited; they sat facing each other like strangers. "I wanted to go down," Mrs. Gereth presently continued. "Well, I went." "I know I did. I was afraid to show it." This made his companion thoughtful again. "Can you take such pleasure in her being 'finished'—a poor girl you've once loved?"