Chance

He gazed contemptuously round the prettily decorated dining-room. He

wrinkled his nose in a puzzled way at the dishes offered to him by the

waiter but refused none, devouring the food with a great appetite and

drinking ("swilling" Fyne called it) gallons of ginger beer, which was

procured for him (in stone bottles) at his request. The difficulty of

keeping up a conversation with that being exhausted Mrs. Fyne herself,

who had come to the table armed with adamantine resolution. The only

memorable thing he said was when, in a pause of gorging himself "with

these French dishes" he deliberately let his eyes roam over the little

tables occupied by parties of diners, and remarked that his wife did for

a moment think of coming down with him, but that he was glad she didn't

do so. "She wouldn't have been at all happy seeing all this alcohol

about. Not at all happy," he declared weightily.

"You must have had a charming evening," I said to Fyne, "if I may judge

from the way you have kept the memory green."

"Delightful," he growled with, positively, a flash of anger at the

recollection, but lapsed back into his solemnity at once. After we had

been silent for a while I asked whether the man took away the girl next

day.

Fyne said that he did; in the afternoon, in a fly, with a few clothes the

maid had got together and brought across from the big house. He only saw

Flora again ten minutes before they left for the railway station, in the

Fynes' sitting-room at the hotel. It was a most painful ten minutes for

the Fynes. The respectable citizen addressed Miss de Barral as "Florrie"

and "my dear," remarking to her that she was not very big "there's not

much of you my dear" in a familiarly disparaging tone. Then turning to

Mrs. Fyne, and quite loud "She's very white in the face. Why's that?" To

this Mrs. Fyne made no reply. She had put the girl's hair up that

morning with her own hands. It changed her very much, observed Fyne. He,

naturally, played a subordinate, merely approving part. All he could do

for Miss de Barral personally was to go downstairs and put her into the

fly himself, while Miss de Barral's nearest relation, having been

shouldered out of the way, stood by, with an umbrella and a little black

bag, watching this proceeding with grim amusement, as it seemed. It was

difficult to guess what the girl thought or what she felt. She no longer

looked a child. She whispered to Fyne a faint "Thank you," from the fly,

and he said to her in very distinct tones and while still holding her

hand: "Pray don't forget to write fully to my wife in a day or two, Miss

de Barral." Then Fyne stepped back and the cousin climbed into the fly

muttering quite audibly: "I don't think you'll be troubled much with her

in the future;" without however looking at Fyne on whom he did not even

bestow a nod. The fly drove away.