"But surely not because she understands and appreciates them?"
"No," Mrs. Gereth replied, "but because they belong to the house and the house belongs to Owen. If I should wish to take anything she would simply say, with that motionless mask: 'It goes with the house.' And day after day, in the face of every argument, of every consideration of generosity, she would repeat, without winking, in that voice like the squeeze of a doll's stomach: 'It goes with the house—it goes with the house.' In that attitude they'll shut themselves up."
Fleda was struck, was even a little startled with the way Mrs. Gereth had turned this over—had faced, if indeed only to recognise its futility, the notion of a battle with her only son. These words led her to make an inquiry which she had not thought it discreet to make before: she brought out the idea of the possibility, after all, of her friend's continuing to live at Poynton. Would they really wish to proceed to extremities? Was no good-humoured, graceful compromise to be imagined or brought about? Couldn't the same roof cover them? Was it so very inconceivable that a married son should, for the rest of her days, share with so charming a mother the home she had devoted more than a score of years to making beautiful for him? Mrs. Gereth hailed this question with a wan, compassionate smile: she replied that a common household, in such a case, was exactly so inconceivable that Fleda had only to
