This time she was escorted by a stout youth. His large pale face wore a
smile of inane cunning soured by annoyance. His clothes were new and the
indescribable smartness of their cut, a genre which had never been
obtruded on her notice before, astonished Mrs. Fyne, who came out into
the hall with her hat on; for she was about to go out to hear a new
pianist (a girl) in a friend's house. The youth addressing Mrs. Fyne
easily begged her not to let "that silly thing go back to us any more."
There had been, he said, nothing but "ructions" at home about her for the
last three weeks. Everybody in the family was heartily sick of
quarrelling. His governor had charged him to bring her to this address
and say that the lady and gentleman were quite welcome to all there was
in it. She hadn't enough sense to appreciate a plain, honest English
home and she was better out of it.
The young, pimply-faced fellow was vexed by this job his governor had
sprung on him. It was the cause of his missing an appointment for that
afternoon with a certain young lady. The lady he was engaged to. But he
meant to dash back and try for a sight of her that evening yet "if he
were to burst over it." "Good-bye, Florrie. Good luck to you--and I
hope I'll never see your face again."
With that he ran out in lover-like haste leaving the hall-door wide open.
Mrs. Fyne had not found a word to say. She had been too much taken aback
even to gasp freely. But she had the presence of mind to grab the girl's
arm just as she, too, was running out into the street--with the haste, I
suppose, of despair and to keep I don't know what tragic tryst.
"You stopped her with your own hand, Mrs. Fyne," I said. "I presume she
meant to get away. That girl is no comedian--if I am any judge."
"Yes! I had to use some force to drag her in."
Mrs. Fyne had no difficulty in stating the truth. "You see I was in the
very act of letting myself out when these two appeared. So that, when
that unpleasant young man ran off, I found myself alone with Flora. It
was all I could do to hold her in the hall while I called to the servants
to come and shut the door."
As is my habit, or my weakness, or my gift, I don't know which, I
visualized the story for myself. I really can't help it. And the vision
of Mrs. Fyne dressed for a rather special afternoon function, engaged in
wrestling with a wild-eyed, white-faced girl had a certain dramatic
fascination.