Dear Mrs. Gereth smiled sweetly. "How could he when our situation is such that he communicates with me only through you and that you are so tortuous you conceal everything? "
"Didn't he answer the note in which you let him know that I was in town?" Fleda asked.
"He answered it sufficiently by rushing off on the spot to see you."
Mrs. Gereth met that allusion with a prompt firmness that made almost insolently light of any ground of complaint, and Fleda's own sense of responsibility was now so vivid that all resentments turned comparatively pale. She had no heart to produce a grievance; she could only, left as she was with the little mystery on her hands, produce after a moment a question. "How then do you come to know that your son has ever thought—"
"That he would give his ears to get you?" Mrs. Gereth broke in. "I had a visit from Mrs. Brigstock."
Fleda opened her eyes. "She went down to Ricks?"
"The day after she had found Owen at your feet. She knows everything."
Fleda shook her head sadly: she was more startled than she cared to show. This odd journey of Mrs. Brigstock's, which, with a simplicity equal for once to Owen's, she had not divined, now struck her as having produced the hush of the last ten days. "There are things she doesn't know!" she presently exclaimed.
