“That was the general sense of his remarks, not his exact words. I thought that his wife’s brother’s existence had never been very embarrassing to him but that now of course he would have to abstain from his allusions to the ‘son of the poet—you know.’ I said ‘yes, yes’ in the pauses because I did not want him to turn round; and all the time I was watching the girl intently. I thought I knew now what she meant with her—‘He was most generous.’ Yes. Generosity of character may carry a man through any situation. But why didn’t she go then to her generous man? Why stand there as if clinging to this solid earth which she surely hated as one must hate the place where one has been tormented, hopeless, unhappy? Suddenly she stirred. Was she going to cross over? No. She turned and began to walk slowly close to the curbstone, reminding me of the time when I discovered her walking near the edge of a ninety-foot sheer drop. It was the same impression, the same carriage, straight, slim, with rigid head and the two hands hanging lightly clasped in front—only now a small sunshade was dangling from them. I saw something fateful in that deliberate pacing towards the inconspicuous door with the words Hotel Entrance on the glass panels.
“She was abreast of it now and I thought that she would stop again; but no! She swerved rigidly—at the moment there was no one near her; she had that bit of pavement to herself—with inanimate slowness as if moved by something outside herself.
“ ‘A confounded convict,’ Fyne burst out.
“With the sound of that word offending my ears I saw the girl extend her arm, push the door open a little way and glide in. I saw plainly that movement, the hand put out in advance with the gesture of a sleepwalker.
“She had vanished, her black figure had melted in the darkness of the open door. For some time Fyne said nothing; and I thought of the girl going upstairs, appearing before the man. Were they looking at each other in silence and feeling they were alone in the world as lovers should at the moment of meeting? But that fine forgetfulness was surely impossible to Anthony the seaman directly after the wrangling interview with Fyne the emissary of an order of things which stops at the edge of the sea. How much he was disturbed I couldn’t tell because I did not know what that impetuous lover had had to listen to.
“ ‘Going to take the old fellow to sea with them,’ I said. ‘Well I really don’t see what else they could have done with him. You told your brother-in-law what you thought of it? I wonder how he took it.’
“ ‘Very improperly,’ repeated Fyne. ‘His manner was offensive, derisive, from the first. I don’t mean he was actually rude in words. Hang it all, I am not a contemptible ass. But he was exulting at having got hold of a miserable girl.’
“ ‘It is pretty certain that she will be much less poor and miserable,’ I murmured.
“It looked as if the exultation of Captain Anthony had got on Fyne’s nerves. ‘I told the fellow very plainly that he was abominably selfish in this,’ he affirmed unexpectedly.
“ ‘You did! Selfish!’ I said rather taken aback. ‘But what if the girl thought that, on the contrary, he was most generous.’
“ ‘What do you know about it,’ growled Fyne. The rents and slashes of his solemnity were closing up gradually but it was going to be a surly solemnity. ‘Generosity! I am disposed to give it another name. No. Not folly,’ he shot out at me as though I had meant to interrupt him. ‘Still another. Something worse. I need not tell you what it is,’ he added with grim meaning.
“ ‘Certainly. You needn’t—unless you like,’ I said blankly. Little Fyne had never interested me so much since the beginning of the de Barral-Anthony affair when I first perceived possibilities in him. The possibilities of dull men are exciting because when they happen they suggest legendary cases of ‘possession,’ not exactly by the devil but, anyhow, by a strange spirit.
“ ‘I told him it was a shame,’ said Fyne. ‘Even if the girl did make eyes at him—but I think with you that she did not. Yes! A shame to take advantage of a girl’s distress—a girl that does not love him in the least.’
“ ‘You think it’s so bad as that?’ I said. ‘Because you know I don’t.’
“ ‘What can you think about it,’ he retorted on me with a solemn stare. ‘I go by her letter to my wife.’
“ ‘Ah! that famous letter. But you haven’t actually read it,’ I said.
“ ‘No, but my wife told me. Of course it was a most improper sort of letter to write considering the circumstances. It pained Mrs. Fyne to discover how thoroughly she had been misunderstood. But what is written is not all. It’s what my wife could read between the lines. She says that the girl is really terrified at heart.’
“ ‘She had not much in life to give her any very special courage for it, or any great confidence in mankind. That’s very true. But this seems an exaggeration.’
“ ‘I should like to know what reasons you have to say that,’ asked Fyne with offended solemnity. ‘I really don’t see any. But I had sufficient authority to tell my brother-in-law that if he thought he was going to do something chivalrous and fine he was mistaken. I can see very well that he will do everything she asks him to do—but, all the same, it is rather a pitiless transaction.’
“For a moment I felt it might be so. Fyne caught sight of an approaching tramcar and stepped out on the road to meet it. ‘Have you a more compassionate scheme ready?’ I called after him. He made no answer, clambered on to the rear platform, and only then looked back. We exchanged a perfunctory wave of the hand. We
