Chance

I believe the fellow was aware of, and enjoyed quietly, the consternation

his presence brought to the bosom of Mr. and Mrs. Fyne. He turned

briskly to the girl. Mrs. Fyne confessed to me that they had remained

all three silent and inanimate. He turned to the girl: "What's this

game, Florrie? You had better give it up. If you expect me to run all

over London looking for you every time you happen to have a tiff with

your auntie and cousins you are mistaken. I can't afford it."

Tiff--was the sort of definition to take one's breath away, having regard

to the fact that both the word convict and the word pauper had been used

a moment before Flora de Barral ran away from the quarrel about the lace

trimmings. Yes, these very words! So at least the girl had told Mrs.

Fyne the evening before. The word tiff in connection with her tale had a

peculiar savour, a paralysing effect. Nobody made a sound. The relative

of de Barral proceeded uninterrupted to a display of magnanimity. "Auntie

told me to tell you she's sorry--there! And Amelia (the romping sister)

shan't worry you again. I'll see to that. You ought to be satisfied.

Remember your position."

Emboldened by the utter stillness pervading the room he addressed himself

to Mrs. Fyne with stolid effrontery:

"What I say is that people should be good-natured. She can't stand being

chaffed. She puts on her grand airs. She won't take a bit of a joke

from people as good as herself anyway. We are a plain lot. We don't

like it. And that's how trouble begins."

Insensible to the stony stare of three pairs of eyes, which, if the

stories of our childhood as to the power of the human eye are true, ought

to have been enough to daunt a tiger, that unabashed manufacturer from

the East End fastened his fangs, figuratively speaking, into the poor

girl and prepared to drag her away for a prey to his cubs of both sexes.

"Auntie has thought of sending you your hat and coat. I've got them

outside in the cab."

Mrs. Fyne looked mechanically out of the window. A four-wheeler stood

before the gate under the weeping sky. The driver in his conical cape

and tarpaulin hat, streamed with water. The drooping horse looked as

though it had been fished out, half unconscious, from a pond. Mrs. Fyne

found some relief in looking at that miserable sight, away from the room

in which the voice of the amiable visitor resounded with a vulgar

intonation exhorting the strayed sheep to return to the delightful fold.

"Come, Florrie, make a move. I can't wait on you all day here."