The sense of her adversary's dryness, which was ominous¹ of something she couldn't read, made Fleda, before complying, linger a little on the terrace; she felt the need moreover of taking breath after such a flight into the cold air of denial. When at last she rejoined Mrs. Gereth she found her erect² before the drawing-room fire. Their tea had been set out in the same quarter, and the mistress of the house, for whom the preparation of it was in general a high and undelegated function, was in an attitude to which the hissing³ urn⁴ made no appeal. This omission⁵, for Fleda, was such a further sign of something to come that, to disguise her apprehension⁶, she immediately and without an apology took the duty in hand; only, however, to be promptly⁷ reminded that she was performing it confusedly and not counting the journeys of the little silver shovel⁸ she emptied into the pot. "Not five, my dear—the usual three," said her hostess, with the same dryness; watching her then in silence while she clumsily corrected her mistake. The tea took some minutes to draw, and Mrs. Gereth availed herself of them suddenly to exclaim: "You haven't yet told me, you know, how it is you propose to 'make' me!"