Chance

Mrs. Fyne heard all this without turning her head away from the window.

Fyne on the hearthrug had to listen and to look on too. I shall not try

to form a surmise as to the real nature of the suspense. Their very

goodness must have made it very anxious. The girl's hands were lying in

her lap; her head was lowered as if in deep thought; and the other went

on delivering a sort of homily. Ingratitude was condemned in it, the

sinfulness of pride was pointed out--together with the proverbial fact

that it "goes before a fall." There were also some sound remarks as to

the danger of nonsensical notions and the disadvantages of a quick

temper. It sets one's best friends against one. "And if anybody ever

wanted friends in the world it's you, my girl." Even respect for

parental authority was invoked. "In the first hour of his trouble your

father wrote to me to take care of you--don't forget it. Yes, to me,

just a plain man, rather than to any of his fine West-End friends. You

can't get over that. And a father's a father no matter what a mess he's

got himself into. You ain't going to throw over your own father--are

you?"

It was difficult to say whether he was more absurd than cruel or more

cruel than absurd. Mrs. Fyne, with the fine ear of a woman, seemed to

detect a jeering intention in his meanly unctuous tone, something more

vile than mere cruelty. She glanced quickly over her shoulder and saw

the girl raise her two hands to her head, then let them fall again on her

lap. Fyne in front of the fire was like the victim of an unholy

spell--bereft of motion and speech but obviously in pain. It was a short

pause of perfect silence, and then that "odious creature" (he must have

been really a remarkable individual in his way) struck out into sarcasm.

"Well? . . . " Again a silence. "If you have fixed it up with the lady

and gentleman present here for your board and lodging you had better say

so. I don't want to interfere in a bargain I know nothing of. But I

wonder how your father will take it when he comes out . . . or don't you

expect him ever to come out?"

At that moment, Mrs. Fyne told me she met the girl's eyes. There was

that in them which made her shut her own. She also felt as though she

would have liked to put her fingers in her ears. She restrained herself,

however; and the "plain man" passed in his appalling versatility from

sarcasm to veiled menace.