I raised my hand to stop my friend Marlow.

"Do you really believe what you have said?" I asked, meaning no offence,

because with Marlow one never could be sure.

"Only on certain days of the year," said Marlow readily with a malicious

smile. "To-day I have been simply trying to be spacious and I perceive

I've managed to hurt your susceptibilities which are consecrated to

women. When you sit alone and silent you are defending in your mind the

poor women from attacks which cannot possibly touch them. I wonder what

can touch them? But to soothe your uneasiness I will point out again

that an Irrelevant world would be very amusing, if the women take care to

make it as charming as they alone can, by preserving for us certain well-

known, well-established, I'll almost say hackneyed, illusions, without

which the average male creature cannot get on. And that condition is

very important. For there is nothing more provoking than the Irrelevant

when it has ceased to amuse and charm; and then the danger would be of

the subjugated masculinity in its exasperation, making some brusque,

unguarded movement and accidentally putting its elbow through the fine

tissue of the world of which I speak. And that would be fatal to it. For

nothing looks more irretrievably deplorable than fine tissue which has

been damaged. The women themselves would be the first to become

disgusted with their own creation.

There was something of women's highly practical sanity and also of their

irrelevancy in the conduct of Miss de Barral's amazing governess. It

appeared from Fyne's narrative that the day before the first rumble of

the cataclysm the questionable young man arrived unexpectedly in Brighton

to stay with his "Aunt." To all outward appearance everything was going

on normally; the fellow went out riding with the girl in the afternoon as

he often used to do--a sight which never failed to fill Mrs. Fyne with

indignation. Fyne himself was down there with his family for a whole

week and was called to the window to behold the iniquity in its progress

and to share in his wife's feelings. There was not even a groom with

them. And Mrs. Fyne's distress was so strong at this glimpse of the

unlucky girl all unconscious of her danger riding smilingly by, that Fyne

began to consider seriously whether it wasn't their plain duty to

interfere at all risks--simply by writing a letter to de Barral. He said

to his wife with a solemnity I can easily imagine "You ought to undertake

that task, my dear. You have known his wife after all. That's something

at any rate." On the other hand the fear of exposing Mrs. Fyne to some

nasty rebuff worried him exceedingly. Mrs. Fyne on her side gave way to

despondency. Success seemed impossible. Here was a woman for more than

five years in charge of the girl and apparently enjoying the complete

confidence of the father. What, that would be effective, could one say,

without proofs, without . . . This Mr. de Barral must be, Mrs. Fyne

pronounced, either a very stupid or a downright bad man, to neglect his

child so.




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