Chance

A short reflective pause--and Fyne accepted eagerly in his own and his

wife's name. A moment after I heard the click of the gate-latch and then

in an ecstasy of barking from his demonstrative dog his serious head went

past my window on the other side of the hedge, its troubled gaze fixed

forward, and the mind inside obviously employed in earnest speculation of

an intricate nature. One at least of his wife's girl-friends had become

more than a mere shadow for him. I surmised however that it was not of

the girl-friend but of his wife that Fyne was thinking. He was an

excellent husband.

I prepared myself for the afternoon's hospitalities, calling in the

farmer's wife and reviewing with her the resources of the house and the

village. She was a helpful woman. But the resources of my sagacity I

did not review. Except in the gross material sense of the afternoon tea

I made no preparations for Mrs. Fyne.

It was impossible for me to make any such preparations. I could not tell

what sort of sustenance she would look for from my sagacity. And as to

taking stock of the wares of my mind no one I imagine is anxious to do

that sort of thing if it can be avoided. A vaguely grandiose state of

mental self-confidence is much too agreeable to be disturbed recklessly

by such a delicate investigation. Perhaps if I had had a helpful woman

at my elbow, a dear, flattering acute, devoted woman . . . There are in

life moments when one positively regrets not being married. No! I don't

exaggerate. I have said--moments, not years or even days. Moments. The

farmer's wife obviously could not be asked to assist. She could not have

been expected to possess the necessary insight and I doubt whether she

would have known how to be flattering enough. She was being helpful in

her own way, with an extraordinary black bonnet on her head, a good mile

off by that time, trying to discover in the village shops a piece of

eatable cake. The pluck of women! The optimism of the dear creatures!

And she managed to find something which looked eatable. That's all I

know as I had no opportunity to observe the more intimate effects of that

comestible. I myself never eat cake, and Mrs. Fyne, when she arrived

punctually, brought with her no appetite for cake. She had no appetite

for anything. But she had a thirst--the sign of deep, of tormenting

emotion. Yes it was emotion, not the brilliant sunshine--more brilliant

than warm as is the way of our discreet self-repressed, distinguished,

insular sun, which would not turn a real lady scarlet--not on any

account. Mrs. Fyne looked even cool. She wore a white skirt and coat; a

white hat with a large brim reposed on her smoothly arranged hair. The

coat was cut something like an army mess-jacket and the style suited her.

I dare say there are many youthful subalterns, and not the worst-looking

too, who resemble Mrs. Fyne in the type of face, in the sunburnt

complexion, down to that something alert in bearing. But not many would

have had that aspect breathing a readiness to assume any responsibility

under Heaven. This is the sort of courage which ripens late in life and

of course Mrs. Fyne was of mature years for all her unwrinkled face.