Chance

"Oh! You do know," said Mrs. Fyne after a pause. "Well--I felt myself

very much abandoned. Then his choice of life--so extraordinary, so

unfortunate, I may say. I was very much grieved. I should have liked

him to have been distinguished--or at any rate to remain in the social

sphere where we could have had common interests, acquaintances, thoughts.

Don't think that I am estranged from him. But the precise truth is that

I do not know him. I was most painfully affected when he was here by the

difficulty of finding a single topic we could discuss together."

While Mrs. Fyne was talking of her brother I let my thoughts wander out

of the room to little Fyne who by leaving me alone with his wife had, so

to speak, entrusted his domestic peace to my honour.

"Well, then, Mrs. Fyne, does it not strike you that it would be

reasonable under the circumstances to let your brother take care of

himself?"

"And suppose I have grounds to think that he can't take care of himself

in a given instance." She hesitated in a funny, bashful manner which

roused my interest. Then: "Sailors I believe are very susceptible," she added with forced

assurance.

I burst into a laugh which only increased the coldness of her observing

stare.

"They are. Immensely! Hopelessly! My dear Mrs. Fyne, you had better

give it up! It only makes your husband miserable."

"And I am quite miserable too. It is really our first difference . . . "

"Regarding Miss de Barral?" I asked.

"Regarding everything. It's really intolerable that this girl should be

the occasion. I think he really ought to give way."

She turned her chair round a little and picking up the book I had been

reading in the morning began to turn the leaves absently.

Her eyes being off me, I felt I could allow myself to leave the room. Its

atmosphere had become hopeless for little Fyne's domestic peace. You may

smile. But to the solemn all things are solemn. I had enough sagacity

to understand that.

I slipped out into the porch. The dog was slumbering at Fyne's feet. The

muscular little man leaning on his elbow and gazing over the fields

presented a forlorn figure. He turned his head quickly, but seeing I was

alone, relapsed into his moody contemplation of the green landscape.

I said loudly and distinctly: "I've come out to smoke a cigarette," and

sat down near him on the little bench. Then lowering my voice:

"Tolerance is an extremely difficult virtue," I said. "More difficult

for some than heroism. More difficult than compassion."