Glancing at Fyne out of the corner of one eye I discovered that he was

attentive. He made the remark that I should have said all this to his

wife. It was a sensible enough remark. But I had given Mrs. Fyne up. I

asked him if his impression was that his wife meant to entrust him with a

letter for her brother?

No. He didn't think so. There were certain reasons which made Mrs. Fyne

unwilling to commit her arguments to paper. Fyne was to be primed with

them. But he had no doubt that if he persisted in his refusal she would

make up her mind to write.

"She does not wish me to go unless with a full conviction that she is

right," said Fyne solemnly.

"She's very exacting," I commented. And then I reflected that she was

used to it. "Would nothing less do for once?"

"You don't mean that I should give way--do you?" asked Fyne in a whisper

of alarmed suspicion.

As this was exactly what I meant, I let his fright sink into him. He

fidgeted. If the word may be used of so solemn a personage, he wriggled.

And when the horrid suspicion had descended into his very heels, so to

speak, he became very still. He sat gazing stonily into space bounded by

the yellow, burnt-up slopes of the rising ground a couple of miles away.

The face of the down showed the white scar of the quarry where not more

than sixteen hours before Fyne and I had been groping in the dark with

horrible apprehension of finding under our hands the shattered body of a

girl. For myself I had in addition the memory of my meeting with her.

She was certainly walking very near the edge--courting a sinister

solution. But, now, having by the most unexpected chance come upon a

man, she had found another way to escape from the world. Such world as

was open to her--without shelter, without bread, without honour. The

best she could have found in it would have been a precarious dole of pity

diminishing as her years increased. The appeal of the abandoned child

Flora to the sympathies of the Fynes had been irresistible. But now she

had become a woman, and Mrs. Fyne was presenting an implacable front to a

particularly feminine transaction. I may say triumphantly feminine. It

is true that Mrs. Fyne did not want women to be women. Her theory was

that they should turn themselves into unscrupulous sexless nuisances. An

offended theorist dwelt in her bosom somewhere. In what way she expected

Flora de Barral to set about saving herself from a most miserable

existence I can't conceive; but I verify believe that she would have

found it easier to forgive the girl an actual crime; say the rifling of

the Bournemouth old lady's desk, for instance. And then--for Mrs. Fyne

was very much of a woman herself--her sense of proprietorship was very

strong within her; and though she had not much use for her brother, yet

she did not like to see him annexed by another woman. By a chit of a

girl. And such a girl, too. Nothing is truer than that, in this world,

the luckless have no right to their opportunities--as if misfortune were

a legal disqualification. Fyne's sentiments (as they naturally would be

in a man) had more stability. A good deal of his sympathy survived.

Indeed I heard him murmur "Ghastly nuisance," but I knew it was of the

integrity of his domestic accord that he was thinking. With my eyes on

the dog lying curled up in sleep in the middle of the porch I suggested

in a subdued impersonal tone: "Yes. Why not let yourself be persuaded?"




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