Fleda hesitated; he held her fast. "No. Anything is better than that." She couldn't, however, succeed for so very many minutes in deferring her exposure. "Why didn't you wait, dearest? Ah, why didn't you wait?"—if that inconsequent appeal kept rising to her lips to be cut short before it was spoken, this was only because at first the humility of gratitude helped her to gain time, enabled her to present herself very honestly as too overcome to be clear. She kissed her companion's hands, she did homage at her feet, she murmured soft snatches of praise, and yet in the midst of it all was conscious that what she really showed most was the wan despair at her heart. She saw Mrs. Gereth's glimpse of this despair suddenly widen, heard the quick chill of her voice pierce through the false courage of endearments. "Do you mean to tell me at such an hour as this that you've really lost him?"!

"Why, Mona's much worse than her mother. She wants much more to give me up." "Why, those beautiful things."

CHAPTER XVIII "Is that what you said to her?" Fleda asked. "I'm glad, then, it didn't arrive. Shouldn't you like him to go?" Fleda asked.