"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 despatched 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!"
He had laughed at his way of putting it, but Fleda remained grave. "Is that what you came to say to her?"
"Not exactly those words. But I did come to say"—he stammered, then brought it out—"I did come to say we must have them right back."
"And did you think your mother would see you?"
"I wasn't sure, but I thought it right to try—to put it to her kindly, don't you see? If she won't see me, then she has herself to thank. The only other way would have been to set the lawyers at her."
"I'm glad you didn't do that."
"I'm dashed if I want to!" Owen honestly responded. "But what's a fellow to do if she won't meet a fellow?"
"What do you call meeting a fellow?" Fleda asked with a smile.
"Why, letting me tell her a dozen things she can have."
