that made her occasionally stop. Several times she uttered it, asked how this and that difficulty had been met. Mrs. Gereth replied with pale lucidity—was naturally the person most familiar with the truth that what she undertook was always somehow achieved. To do it was to do it—she had more than one kind of magnificence. She confessed there, audaciously enough, to a sort of arrogance of energy, and Fleda, going on again, her inquiry more than answered and her arm rendering service, flushed in her diminished identity with the sense that such a woman was great.
"You do mean literally everything, to the last little miniature on the last little screen?"
"I mean literally everything. Go over them with the catalogue!"
Fleda went over them while they walked again; she had no need of the catalogue. At last she spoke once more. "Even the Maltese cross?"
"Even the Maltese cross. Why not that as well as everything else?—especially as I remembered how you like it."
Finally, after an interval, the girl exclaimed: "But the mere fatigue of it, the exhaustion of such a feat! I drag you to and fro here while you must be ready to drop."
"I'm very, very tired." Mrs. Gereth's slow headshake was tragic. "I couldn't do it again."
"I doubt if they'd bear it again!"
"That's another matter: they'd bear it if I could. There won't have been, this time either, a shake or
