Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 8, 2025
She was alone. The children must have been already in bed and I saw no attending girl-friend shadow near her vague but unmistakable form, half-lost in the obscurity of the little garden. I heard Fyne exclaim "Nothing" and then Mrs Fyne's well-trained, responsible voice uttered the words, "It's what I have said," with incisive equanimity. By that time I had passed on, raising my hat.
And remembering Mrs Fyne's hints that the girl was unbalanced, I added: "Was it an unreserved confession you wrote?" She did not answer me for a time, and as I waited I thought that there's nothing like a confession to make one look mad; and that of all confessions a written one is the most detrimental all round. Never confess! Never, never! An untimely joke is a source of bitter regret always.
What was wrong was that a girl-friend was missing. She had been missing precisely since six o'clock that morning. The woman who did the work of the cottage saw her going out at that hour, for a walk. The pedestrian Fyne's ideas of a walk were extensive, but the girl did not turn up for lunch, nor yet for tea, nor yet for dinner. She had not turned up by footpath, road or rail.
And this characteristic aspect made her attractive; an individual touch you know. The dog had run on ahead and now gazed at us by the side of the Fyne's garden-gate in a tense attitude and wagging his stumpy tail very, very slowly, with an air of concentrated attention. The girl-friend of the Fynes bolted violently through the aforesaid gate and into the cottage leaving me on the road astounded.
"I found her in the night nursery crouching on the floor, her head resting on the cot of the youngest of my girls. The eldest was sitting up in bed looking at her across the room." Only a night-light was burning there. Mrs Fyne raised her up, took her over to Mr Fyne's little dressing-room on the other side of the landing, to a fire by which she could dry herself, and left her there.
It appeared from Fyne's narrative that the day before the first rumble of the cataclysm the questionable young man arrived unexpectedly in Brighton to stay with his "Aunt." To all outward appearance everything was going on normally; the fellow went out riding with the girl in the afternoon as he often used to do a sight which never failed to fill Mrs. Fyne with indignation.
The worthy "employer of labour" sat down. He might have been awed by Mrs Fyne's peremptory manner for she did not think of conciliating him then. He sat down, provisionally, like a man who finds himself much against his will in doubtful company.
I seem to see her very delightful disciples singeing themselves with the torches, and cutting their fingers with the swords of Mrs. Fyne's furnishing." "My wife holds her opinions very seriously," murmured Fyne suddenly. "Yes. No doubt," I assented in a low voice as before. "But it is a mere intellectual exercise. What I see is that in dealing with reality Mrs. Fyne ceases to be tolerant.
It appeared from Fyne's narrative that the day before the first rumble of the cataclysm the questionable young man arrived unexpectedly in Brighton to stay with his "Aunt." To all outward appearance everything was going on normally; the fellow went out riding with the girl in the afternoon as he often used to do a sight which never failed to fill Mrs Fyne with indignation.
I had felt myself always to be in Mrs Fyne's view her husband's chess-player and nothing else a convenience almost an implement. "I am highly flattered," I said. "I have always heard that there are no limits to feminine intuition; and now I am half inclined to believe it is so. But still I fail to see in what way my sagacity, practical or otherwise, can be of any service to Mrs Fyne.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking