ss,
played at obscurity and assented disingenuously to the proposition that
they at least had a respite. The future was dark to her, but there was a
silken thread she could clutch in the gloom--she would never give Owen
away. He might give himself--he even certainly would; but that was his
own affair, and his blunders, his innocence, only added to the appeal he
made to her. She would cover him, she would protect him, and beyond
thinking her a cheerful inmate he would never guess her intention, any
more than, beyond thinking her clever enough for anything, his acute
mother would discover it. From this hour, with Mrs. Gereth, there was a
flaw in her frankness: her admirable friend continued to know everything
she did; what was to remain unknown was the general motive.

From the window of her room, the next morning before breakfast, the girl
saw Owen in the garden with Mona, who strolled beside him with a
listening parasol, but without a visible look for the great florid
picture that had been hung there by Mrs. Gereth's hand. Mona kept
dropping her eyes, as she walked, to catch the sheen of her
patent-leather shoes, which resembled a man's and which she kicked
forward a little--it gave her an odd movement--to help her see what she
thought of them. When Fleda came down Mrs. Gereth was in the
breakfast-room; and at that moment Owen, through a long window, passed
in alone from the terrace and very endearingly kissed his mother. It
immediately struck the girl that she was in their way, for hadn't he
been borne on a wave of joy exactly to announce, before the Brigstocks
departed, that Mona had at last faltered out the sweet word he had been
waiting for? He shook hands with his friendly violence, but Fleda
contrived not to look into his face: what she liked most to see in it
was not the reflection of Mona's big boot-toes. She could bear well
enough that young lady herself, but she couldn't bear Owen's opinion of
her. She was on the point of slipping into the garden when the movement
was checked by Mrs. Gereth's suddenly drawing her close, as if for the
morning embrace, and then, while she kept her there with the bravery of
the night's repose, breaking out: "Well, my dear boy, what _does_ your
young friend there make of our odds and ends?"

"Oh, she thinks they're all right!"

Fleda immediately guessed from his tone that he had not come in to say
what she supposed; there was even something in it to confirm Mrs.
Gereth's belief