Chance

She sat up and leaning her elbow on the table sustained her head in her

open palm casting down her eyes. Compunction? It was indeed a very off-

hand way of treating a brother come to stay for the first time in fifteen

years. I suppose she discovered very soon that she had nothing in common

with that sailor, that stranger, fashioned and marked by the sea of long

voyages. In her strong-minded way she had scorned pretences, had gone to

her writing which interested her immensely. A very praiseworthy thing

your sincere conduct,--if it didn't at times resemble brutality so much.

But I don't think it was compunction. That sentiment is rare in women

. . . "

"Is it?" I interrupted indignantly.

"You know more women than I do," retorted the unabashed Marlow. "You

make it your business to know them--don't you? You go about a lot

amongst all sorts of people. You are a tolerably honest observer. Well,

just try to remember how many instances of compunction you have seen. I

am ready to take your bare word for it. Compunction! Have you ever seen

as much as its shadow? Have you ever? Just a shadow--a passing shadow!

I tell you it is so rare that you may call it non-existent. They are too

passionate. Too pedantic. Too courageous with themselves--perhaps. No

I don't think for a moment that Mrs. Fyne felt the slightest compunction

at her treatment of her sea-going brother. What he thought of it who

can tell? It is possible that he wondered why he had been so insistently

urged to come. It is possible that he wondered bitterly--or

contemptuously--or humbly. And it may be that he was only surprised and

bored. Had he been as sincere in his conduct as his only sister he would

have probably taken himself off at the end of the second day. But

perhaps he was afraid of appearing brutal. I am not far removed from the

conviction that between the sincerities of his sister and of his dear

nieces, Captain Anthony of the Ferndale must have had his loneliness

brought home to his bosom for the first time of his life, at an age,

thirty-five or thereabouts, when one is mature enough to feel the pang of

such a discovery. Angry or simply sad but certainly disillusioned he

wanders about and meets the girl one afternoon and under the sway of a

strong feeling forgets his shyness. This is no supposition. It is a

fact. There was such a meeting in which the shyness must have perished

before we don't know what encouragement, or in the community of mood made

apparent by some casual word. You remember that Mrs. Fyne saw them one

afternoon coming back to the cottage together. Don't you think that I

have hit on the psychology of the situation? . . . "