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I advanced, in a common sense 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 mouth looked very red in the white face peeping from under the veil, the little pointed chin had in its form something aggressive. Slight and even angular in her modest black dress she was an appealing and yes she was a desirable little figure. Her lips moved very fast asking me: "And they believed you at once?" "Yes, they believed me at once. Mrs. Fyne's word to us was "Go!"
West, by a word and a gesture, indicated that the suggestion was preposterous and the conversation highly unwelcome. But it was obvious that young Mr. Fyne's suggestion had caught the directors at sight. Mr. Shorter and Mr. Porter affirmed that they had not ventured to hope, etc., etc., but that if Mr.
And musing thus on the general inclination of our instincts towards injustice I met unexpectedly, at the turn of the road, as it were, a shape of duplicity. It might have been unconscious on Mrs. Fyne's part, but her leading idea appeared to me to be not to keep, not to preserve her brother, but to get rid of him definitely. She did not hope to stop anything. She had too much sense for that.
She fell silent for a moment and I mused idly on the boyhood of little Fyne. I could not imagine what it might have been like. His dominant trait was clearly the remnant of still earlier days, because I've never seen such staring solemnity as Fyne's except in a very young baby. But where was he all that time? Didn't he suffer contamination from the indolence of Captain Anthony, I inquired.
It was given to me in several stages, at intervals which are not indicated here. On this first occasion I remarked to Marlow with some surprise: "But, if I remember rightly you said you didn't know Captain Anthony." "No. I never saw the man. It's years ago now, but I seem to hear solemn little Fyne's deep voice announcing the approaching visit of his wife's brother "the son of the poet, you know."
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.
Marlow smiled his retrospective smile which was kind as though he bore no grudge against people he used to know. "Little Fyne's marriage was quite successful. There was no design at all in it. Fyne, you must know, was an enthusiastic pedestrian. He spent his holidays tramping all over our native land. His tastes were simple. He put infinite conviction and perseverance into his holidays.
What a strange condition to be in. Very likely one of the parents only was dead? But no; it couldn't be, since Fyne had said just before that "there was really no one" to communicate with. No one! And then remembering Mrs. Fyne's snappy "Practically" my thoughts fastened upon that lady as a more tangible object of speculation.
He faltered miserably as he added from force of habit: "The son of the poet, you know." A silence fell. Fyne's several expressions were so many examples of varied consistency. This was the discomfiture of solemnity. My interest of course was revived. "But hold on," I said. "They didn't go together. Is it a suspicion or does she actually say that..."
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