t: it was as if, in spite of
frustration, he had got the essence of what he wanted and could afford
to agree with her to the extent of keeping up the forms. He covered her
with his fine, simple smile, but made no other approach. "Oh, I'm so
awfully happy!" he exclaimed.

She hesitated: she would only be impeccable even though she should have
to be sententious. "You'll be happy if you're perfect!" she risked.

He laughed out at this, and she wondered if, with a new-born acuteness,
he saw the absurdity of her speech, and that no one was happy just
because no one could be what she so lightly prescribed. "I don't pretend
to be perfect, but I shall find a letter to-night!"

"So much the better, if it's the kind of one you desire." That was the
most she could say, and having made it sound as dry as possible she
lapsed into a silence so pointed as to deprive him of all pretext for
not leaving her. Still, nevertheless, he stood there, playing with his
hat and filling the long pause with a strained and anxious smile. He
wished to obey her thoroughly, to appear not to presume on any advantage
he had won from her; but there was clearly something he longed for
beside. While he showed this by hanging on she thought of two other
things. One of these was that his countenance, after all, failed to bear
out his description of his bliss. As for the other, it had no sooner
come into her head than she found it seated, in spite of her resolution,
on her lips. It took the form of an inconsequent question. "When did you
say Mrs. Brigstock was to have gone back?"

Owen stared. "To Waterbath? She was to have spent the night in town,
don't you know? But when she left me, after our talk, I said to myself
that she would take an evening train. I know I made her want to get
home."

"Where did you separate?" Fleda asked.

"At the West Kensington station--she was going to Victoria. I had walked
with her there, and our talk was all on the way."

Fleda pondered a moment. "If she did go back that night you would have
heard from Waterbath by this time."

"I don't know," said Owen. "I thought I might hear this morning."

"She can't have gone back," Fleda declared. "Mona would have written on
the spot."

"Oh yes, she _will_ have written bang off!" Owen cheerfully conceded.

Fleda thought again. "Then, even in the event of her mother's not having
got home till the morning, you would have had your letter at the latest
to-day. You see she has had