and he stood there with his hand on
the knob and smiled at her strangely. Clearer than he could have spoken
it was the sense of those seconds of silence.

"When I got into this I didn't know you, and now that I know you how can
I tell you the difference? And _she_'s so different, so ugly and vulgar,
in the light of this squabble. No, like _you_ I've never known one. It's
another thing, it's a new thing altogether. Listen to me a little: can't
something be done?" It was what had been in the air in those moments at
Kensington, and it only wanted words to be a committed act. The more
reason, to the girl's excited mind, why it shouldn't have words; her one
thought was not to hear, to keep the act uncommitted. She would do this
if she had to be horrid.

"Please let me out, Mr. Gereth," she said; on which he opened the door
with an hesitation so very brief that in thinking of these things
afterwards--for she was to think of them forever--she wondered in what
tone she could have spoken. They went into the hall, where she
encountered the parlor-maid, of whom she inquired whether Mrs. Gereth
had come in.

"No, miss; and I think she has left the garden. She has gone up the back
road." In other words, they had the whole place to themselves. It would
have been a pleasure, in a different mood, to converse with that
parlor-maid.

"Please open the house-door," said Fleda.

Owen, as if in quest of his umbrella, looked vaguely about the
hall--looked even wistfully up the staircase--while the neat young woman
complied with Fleda's request. Owen's eyes then wandered out of the open
door. "I think it's awfully nice here," he observed; "I assure you I
could do with it myself."

"I should think you might, with half your things here! It's Poynton
itself--almost. Good-bye, Mr. Gereth," Fleda added. Her intention had
naturally been that the neat young woman, opening the front door, should
remain to close it on the departing guest. That functionary, however,
had acutely vanished behind a stiff flap of green baize which Mrs.
Gereth had not yet had time to abolish. Fleda put out her hand, but Owen
turned away--he couldn't find his umbrella. She passed into the open
air--she was determined to get him out; and in a moment he joined her in
the little plastered portico which had small resemblance to any feature
of Poynton. It was, as Mrs. Gereth had said, like the portico of a house
in Brompton.

"Oh, I don't mean with all the things here," h