innocent as she could and said as quickly as possible: "For me? Why in the world for me?"
"Because you're so awfully keen."
"Am I? Do I strike you so? You know I hate him," Fleda went on.
She had the sense for a while of Mrs. Gereth's regarding her with the detachment of some stern, clever stranger. "Then what's the matter with you? Why do you want me to give in?"
Fleda hesitated; she felt herself reddening. "I've only said your son wants it. I haven't said I do."
"Then say it and have done with it!"
This was more peremptory than any word her friend, though often speaking in her presence with much point, had ever yet deliberately addressed her. It affected her like the crack of a whip, but she confined herself with an effort to taking it as a reminder that she must keep her head. "I know he has his engagement to carry out."
"His engagement to marry? Why, it's just that engagement we loathe!"
"Why should I loathe it? " Fleda asked with a strained smile. Then before Mrs. Gereth could reply she pursued: "I'm thinking of his general undertaking—to give her the house as she originally saw it."
"To give her the house!"—Mrs. Gereth brought up the words from the depth of the unspeakable. The effect was like the moan of an autumn wind;
