resides—the impression, somehow, of something dreamed and missed, something reduced, relinquished, resigned: the poetry, as it were, of something sensibly gone." Fleda ingeniously and triumphantly worked it out. "Ah, there's something here that will never be in the inventory!"
"Does it happen to be in your power to give it a name?" Mrs. Gereth's face showed the dim dawn of an amusement at finding herself seated at the feet of her pupil.
"I can give it a dozen. It's a kind of fourth dimension. It's a presence, a perfume, a touch. It's a soul, a story, a life. There's ever so much more here than you and I. We're in fact just three!"
"Oh, if you count the ghosts!"
"Of course I count the ghosts. It seems to me ghosts count double—for what they were and for what they are. Somehow there were no ghosts at Poynton," Fleda went on. "That was the only fault."
Mrs. Gereth, considering, appeared to fall in with the girl's fine humour. "Poynton was too splendidly happy."
"Poynton was too splendidly happy," Fleda promptly echoed.
"But it's cured of that now," her companion added.
"Yes, henceforth there'll be a ghost or two."
Mrs. Gereth thought again: she found her young friend suggestive. "Only she won't see them."
