I had seldom seen Marlow so vehement, so pessimistic, so earnestly

cynical before. I cut his declamation short by asking what answer Flora

de Barral had given to his question. "Did the poor girl admit firing off

her confidences at Mrs. Fyne--eight pages of close writing--that sort of

thing?"

Marlow shook his head.

"She did not tell me. I accepted her silence, as a kind of answer and

remarked that it would have been better if she had simply announced the

fact to Mrs. Fyne at the cottage. "Why didn't you do it?" I asked point-

blank.

She said: "I am not a very plucky girl." She looked up at me and added

meaningly: "And you know it. And you know why."

I must remark that she seemed to have become very subdued since our first

meeting at the quarry. Almost a different person from the defiant, angry

and despairing girl with quivering lips and resentful glances.

"I thought it was very sensible of you to get away from that sheer drop,"

I said.

She looked up with something of that old expression.

"That's not what I mean. I see you will have it that you saved my life.

Nothing of the kind. I was concerned for that vile little beast of a

dog. No! It was the idea of--of doing away with myself which was

cowardly. That's what I meant by saying I am not a very plucky girl."

"Oh!" I retorted airily. "That little dog. He isn't really a bad little

dog." But she lowered her eyelids and went on: "I was so miserable that I could think only of myself. This was mean.

It

was cruel too. And besides I had not given it up--not then."

* * * * *

Marlow changed his tone.

"I don't know much of the psychology of self-destruction. It's a sort of

subject one has few opportunities to study closely. I knew a man once

who came to my rooms one evening, and while smoking a cigar confessed to

me moodily that he was trying to discover some graceful way of retiring

out of existence. I didn't study his case, but I had a glimpse of him

the other day at a cricket match, with some women, having a good time.

That seems a fairly reasonable attitude. Considered as a sin, it is a

case for repentance before the throne of a merciful God. But I imagine

that Flora de Barral's religion under the care of the distinguished

governess could have been nothing but outward formality. Remorse in the

sense of gnawing shame and unavailing regret is only understandable to me

when some wrong had been done to a fellow-creature. But why she, that

girl who existed on sufferance, so to speak--why she should writhe

inwardly with remorse because she had once thought of getting rid of a

life which was nothing in every respect but a curse--that I could not

understand. I thought it was very likely some obscure influence of

common forms of speech, some traditional or inherited feeling--a vague

notion that suicide is a legal crime; words of old moralists and

preachers which remain in the air and help to form all the authorized

moral conventions. Yes, I was surprised at her remorse. But lowering

her glance unexpectedly till her dark eye-lashes seemed to rest against

her white cheeks she presented a perfectly demure aspect. It was so

attractive that I could not help a faint smile. That Flora de Barral

should ever, in any aspect, have the power to evoke a smile was the very

last thing I should have believed. She went on after a slight

hesitation: "One day I started for there, for that place."




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