Fleda was embarrassed; she had not made up her mind definitely to lie. "I didn't think you'd care." That small untruth she would risk. "To send them back—to keep it quiet." The girl had not felt the impulse to ask him to sit down among the monuments of his wrong, so that, nervously, awkwardly, he fidgeted about the room with his hands in his pockets and an effect of returning a little into possession through the formulation of his view. "To have them packed and dispatched again, since she knows so well how. She does it beautifully"—he looked close at two or three precious pieces. "What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander!"!

"By letting yourself go." "If you do any such thing, you shall never see me again,—absolutely, literally never!"

"I must take it on trust," the girl pursued. "And what if Mona doesn't give you up?" she added. "I don't want to see any letter," said Fleda. "You'll miss your train." "Did he tell you so?" Fleda asked.