"Why is it you hate him so?" her hostess abruptly inquired. "Very well, then. Will you wait?"!

Fleda was silent a moment. "No, I don't mean that Owen has any," she returned at last. "They've looked very beautiful, and they've been very beautiful. Oh, I've told her the sort you are!" the young man pursued.

"I'm not talking of disgust; I'm talking of its opposite," said Mrs. Gereth. "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." "Wherever he is, I can bear it," Fleda said. "But I haven't the least idea where he is."