ought to have left. Is the whole house full of them?"
"The whole house," said Fleda uncompromisingly. She thought of her lovely room.
"I never knew how much I cared for them. They're awfully valuable, aren't they?" Owen's manner mystified her; she was conscious of a return of the agitation he had produced in her on that last bewildering day, and she reminded herself that, now she was warned, it would be inexcusable of her to allow him to justify the fear that had dropped on her. "Mother thinks I never took any notice, but I assure you I was awfully proud of everything. Upon my honour I was proud, Miss Vetch."
There was an oddity in his helplessness; he appeared to wish to persuade her and to satisfy himself that she sincerely felt how worthy he really was to treat what had happened as an injury. She could only exclaim almost as helplessly as himself: "Of course you did justice! It's all most painful. I shall instantly let your mother know," she again declared, "the way I've spoken of her to you." She clung to that idea as to the sign of her straightness.
"You'll tell her what you think she ought to do?" he asked with some eagerness.
"What she ought to do?"
"Don't you think it—I mean that she ought to give them up?"
"To give them up?" Fleda hesitated again.
