"She was there, day before yesterday, only for a few hours. She met him in London and went down to see the things."
Fleda remembered that she had seen them only once. "Did you see them?" she then ventured to ask.
"Everything."
"Are they right?"
"Quite right. There's nothing like them," said Mrs. Gereth. At this her companion took up one of her hands again and kissed it as she had done in London. "Mona went back that night; she was not there yesterday. Owen stayed on," she added. Fleda stared. "Then she's not to live there?"
"Rather! But not till after the public marriage." Mrs. Gereth seemed to muse; then she brought out: "She'll live there alone."
"Alone?"
"She'll have it to herself."
"He won't live with her?"
"Never! But she's none the less his wife, and you're not," said Mrs. Gereth, getting up. "Our only chance is the chance she may die."
Fleda appeared to consider: she appreciated her visitor's magnanimous use of the plural. "Mona won't die," she replied.
"Well, I shall, thank God! Till then"—and with this, for the first time, Mrs. Gereth put out her hand—"don't desert me."
Fleda took her hand, and her clasp of it was a reiteration of a promise already given. She said
