Fleda was silent a moment. "Perhaps that displeased her," she at last suggested. "Thank God, no!"!

"I've pulled myself together." Fleda paused; then she added: "And I've seen Mr. Owen." Owen sat there a minute staring at her. "Ah, you're beautiful, more beautiful than any one," he broke out, "but I'll be hanged if I can ever understand you! On Tuesday, at your father's, you were beautiful—as beautiful, just before I left, as you are at this instant. But the next day, when I went back, I found it had apparently meant nothing; and now, again, that you let me come here and you shine at me like an angel, it doesn't bring you an inch nearer to saying what I want you to say." He remained a moment longer in the same position; then he jerked himself up. "What I want you to say is that you like me—what I want you to say is that you pity me." He sprang up and came to her. "What I want you to say is that you'll save me!"

"Painful?" Mrs. Gereth stared. "What pain can I ever feel again?" Fleda shook her head wearily. "No—I was only in love with him!" "You've come down to it, miss, already?"