"She didn't know I want you, my dear. It's a wonder, with all my violence—the gross publicity I've given my desires. But she's as stupid as an owl—she doesn't feel your charm."
Fleda felt herself flush slightly, but she tried to smile. "Did you tell her all about it? Did you make her understand you want me?"
"For what do you take me? I wasn't such a donkey."
"So as not to aggravate Mona?" Fleda suggested.
"So as not to aggravate Mona, naturally. We've had a narrow course to steer, but thank God we're at last in the open!"
"What do you call the open, Mrs. Gereth?" Fleda demanded. Then as the other faltered: "Do you know where Mr. Owen is to-day?"
Mrs. Gereth stared. "Do you mean he's at Waterbath? Well, that's your own affair. I can bear it if you can."
"Wherever he is, I can bear it," Fleda said. "But I haven't the least idea where he is."
"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" Mrs. Gereth broke out with a change of note that showed how deep a passion underlay everything she had said. The poor woman, catching her companion's hand, however, the next moment, as if to retract something of this harshness, spoke more patiently. "Don't you understand, Fleda, how immensely, how devotedly, I've trusted you?" Her tone was indeed a supplication.
Fleda was infinitely shaken; she was silent a little. "Yes, I understand. Did she go to you to complain of me?"