I asked him if he really and truly supposed that any sane girl would go
and hide in that shed; and if so why?
Disdainful of my mirth he merely muttered his basso-profundo thankfulness
that we had not found her anywhere about there. Having grown extremely
sensitive (an effect of irritation) to the tonalities, I may say, of this
affair, I felt that it was only an imperfect, reserved, thankfulness,
with one eye still on the possibilities of the several ponds in the
neighbourhood. And I remember I snorted, I positively snorted, at that
poor Fyne.
What really jarred upon me was the rate of his walking. Differences in
politics, in ethics and even in aesthetics need not arouse angry
antagonism. One's opinion may change; one's tastes may alter--in fact
they do. One's very conception of virtue is at the mercy of some
felicitous temptation which may be sprung on one any day. All these
things are perpetually on the swing. But a temperamental difference,
temperament being immutable, is the parent of hate. That's why religious
quarrels are the fiercest of all. My temperament, in matters pertaining
to solid land, is the temperament of leisurely movement, of deliberate
gait. And there was that little Fyne pounding along the road in a most
offensive manner; a man wedded to thick-soled, laced boots; whereas my
temperament demands thin shoes of the lightest kind. Of course there
could never have been question of friendship between us; but under the
provocation of having to keep up with his pace I began to dislike him
actively. I begged sarcastically to know whether he could tell me if we
were engaged in a farce or in a tragedy. I wanted to regulate my
feelings which, I told him, were in an unbecoming state of confusion.
But Fyne was as impervious to sarcasm as a turtle. He tramped on, and
all he did was to ejaculate twice out of his deep chest, vaguely,
doubtfully.
"I am afraid . . . I am afraid! . . . "
This was tragic. The thump of his boots was the only sound in a shadowy
world. I kept by his side with a comparatively ghostly, silent tread. By
a strange illusion the road appeared to run up against a lot of low stars
at no very great distance, but as we advanced new stretches of whitey-
brown ribbon seemed to come up from under the black ground. I observed,
as we went by, the lamp in my parlour in the farmhouse still burning. But
I did not leave Fyne to run in and put it out. The impetus of his
pedestrian excellence carried me past in his wake before I could make up
my mind.