In the place at the corner, on the chance of its saving time, Fleda wrote her telegram—wrote it in silence under Mrs. Gereth's eye and then in silence handed it to her. "I send this to Waterbath, on the possibility of your being there, to ask you to come to me." Mrs. Gereth held it a moment, read it more than once; then keeping it, and with her eyes on her companion, seemed to consider. There was the dawn of a kindness in her look; Fleda perceived in it, as if as the reward of complete submission, a slight relaxation of her rigor.
"Wouldn't it perhaps after all be better," she asked, "before doing this, to see if we can make his whereabouts certain?"
"Why so? It will be always so much done," said Fleda. "Though I'm poor," she added with a smile, "I don't mind the shilling."
"The shilling's my shilling," said Mrs. Gereth.
Fleda stayed her hand. "No, no—I'm superstitious."
"Superstitious?"
"To succeed, it must be all me!"
"Well, if that will make it succeed!" Mrs. Gereth took back her shilling, but she still kept the telegram. "As he's most probably not there—"
"If he shouldn't be there," Fleda interrupted, "there will be no harm done."
"If he 'shouldn't be' there!" Mrs. Gereth ejaculated. "Heaven help us, how you assume it!"