“ ‘Well. And what do you think of it?’
“ ‘I don’t know. How’s one to tell? But I say that the thing is done now and there’s an end of it,’ said the masculine creature as bluntly as his innate solemnity permitted.
“Mrs. Fyne moved a little in her chair. I turned to her and remarked gently that this was a charge, a criticism, which was often made. Some people always ask: What could he see in her? Others wonder what she could have seen in him? Expressions of unsuitability.
“She said with all the emphasis of her quietly folded arms:
“ ‘I know perfectly well what Flora has seen in my brother.’
“I bowed my head to the gust but pursued my point.
“ ‘And then the marriage in most cases turns out no worse than the average, to say the least of it.’
“Mrs. Fyne was disappointed by the optimistic turn of my sagacity. She rested her eyes on my face as though in doubt whether I had enough femininity in my composition to understand the case.
“I waited for her to speak. She seemed to be asking herself; Is it after all, worth while to talk to that man? You understand how provoking this was. I looked in my mind for something appallingly stupid to say, with the object of distressing and teasing Mrs. Fyne. It is humiliating to confess a failure. One would think that a man of average intelligence could command stupidity at will. But it isn’t so. I suppose it’s a special gift or else the difficulty consists in being relevant. Discovering that I could find no really telling stupidity, I turned to the next best thing; a platitude. I advanced, in a commonsense tone, that, surely, in the matter of marriage a man had only himself to please.
“Mrs. Fyne received this without the flutter of an eyelid. Fyne’s masculine breast, as might have been expected, was pierced by that old, regulation shaft. He grunted most feelingly. I turned to him with false simplicity. ‘Don’t you agree with me?’
“ ‘The very thing I’ve been telling my wife,’ he exclaimed in his extra-manly bass. ‘We have been discussing—’
“A discussion in the Fyne ménage! How portentous! Perhaps the very first difference they had ever had: Mrs. Fyne unflinching and ready for any responsibility, Fyne solemn and shrinking—the children in bed upstairs; and outside the dark fields, the shadowy contours of the land on the starry background of the universe, with the crude light of the open window like a beacon for the truant who would never come back now; a truant no longer but a downright fugitive. Yet a fugitive carrying off spoils. It was the flight of a raider—or a traitor? This affair of the purloined brother, as I had named it to myself, had a very puzzling physiognomy. The girl must have been desperate, I thought, hearing the grave voice of Fyne well enough but catching the sense of his words not at all, except the very last words which were:
“ ‘Of course, it’s extremely distressing.’
“I looked at him inquisitively. What was distressing him? The purloining of the son of the poet-tyrant by the daughter of the financier-convict. Or only, if I may say so, the wind of their flight disturbing the solemn placidity of the Fynes’ domestic atmosphere. My incertitude did not last long, for he added:
“ ‘Mrs. Fyne urges me to go to London at once.’
“One could guess at, almost see, his profound distaste for the journey, his distress at a difference of feeling with his wife. With his serious view of the sublunary comedy Fyne suffered from not being able to agree solemnly with her sentiment as he was accustomed to do, in recognition of having had his way in one supreme instance; when he made her elope with him—the most momentous step imaginable in a young lady’s life. He had been really trying to acknowledge it by taking the rightness of her feeling for granted on every other occasion. It had become a sort of habit at last. And it is never pleasant to break a habit. The man was deeply troubled. I said: ‘Really! To go to London!’
“He looked dumbly into my eyes. It was pathetic and funny. ‘And you of course feel it would be useless,’ I pursued.
“He evidently felt that, though he said nothing. He only went on blinking at me with a solemn and comical slowness. ‘Unless it be to carry there the family’s blessing,’ I went on, indulging my chaffing humour steadily, in a rather sneaking fashion, for I dared not look at Mrs. Fyne, to my right. No sound or movement came from that direction. ‘You think very naturally that to match mere good, sound reasons, against the passionate conclusions of love is a waste of intellect bordering on the absurd.’
“He looked surprised as if I had discovered something very clever. He, dear man, had thought of nothing at all.
“He simply knew that he did not want to go to London on that mission. Mere masculine delicacy. In a moment he became enthusiastic.
“ ‘Yes! Yes! Exactly. A man in love … You hear, my dear? Here you have an independent opinion—’
“ ‘Can anything be more hopeless,’ I insisted to the fascinated little Fyne, ‘than to pit reason against love. I must confess however that in this case when I think of that poor girl’s sharp chin I wonder if …’
“My levity was too much for Mrs. Fyne. Still leaning back in her chair she exclaimed:
“ ‘Mr. Marlow!’
“As if mysteriously affected by her indignation the absurd Fyne dog began to bark in the porch. It might have been at a trespassing bumblebee however. That animal was capable of any eccentricity. Fyne got up quickly and
