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Updated: June 7, 2025
It was the Fyne dog. Flora de Barral paused, looking at me with a peculiar expression and then went on. You see, she imagined the dog had become extremely attached to her. She took it into her head that he might fall over or jump down after her. She tried to drive him away. She spoke sternly to him. It only made him more frisky.
At the proper season you would meet in the fields, Fyne, a serious-faced, broad- chested, little man, with a shabby knap-sack on his back, making for some church steeple. He had a horror of roads. He wrote once a little book called the 'Tramp's Itinerary, and was recognised as an authority on the footpaths of England.
What could he have said? I could see he was observing the man very thoughtfully." "And so, Mr. Fyne listened, observed and meditated," I said. "That's an excellent way of coming to a conclusion. And may I ask at what conclusion he had managed to arrive? On what ground did he cease to wonder at the inexplicable? For I can't admit humanity to be the explanation. It would be too monstrous."
But meantime please remember that I was not married to Mrs Fyne. That lady's little finger was none of my legal property. I had not run off with it. It was Fyne who had done that thing. Let him be wound round as much as his backbone could stand or even more, for all I cared.
You must confess that nothing could have been more right. I had a mind to shout `Brava! Brava! but I did not do that. I took a piece of cake and went out to bribe the Fyne dog into some sort of self-control.
Lady Mar looked with affright at the gathering tempest, and with difficulty was persuaded to retire under the shelter of a little awning. The earl forgot his debility in the general terror; and tried to reassure the boatmen. But a tremendous sweep of the gale, driving the vessel far across the head of Bute, shot her past the mouth of Loch Fyne, toward the perilous rocks of Arran.
After a while, without stirring, she whispered brokenly: "That awful woman told me that all the world would call papa these awful names. Is it possible? Is it possible?" Mrs Fyne kept silent. "Do say something to me, Mrs Fyne," the daughter of de Barral insisted in the same feeble whisper. Again Mrs Fyne assured me that it had been very trying. Terribly trying. "Yes, thanks, I will."
Mrs Fyne waited at the door with her quite unmoved physiognomy and her readiness to confront any sort of responsibility, which already characterised her, long before she became a ruthless theorist. Relieved, his mission accomplished, Fyne closed hastily the door of the sitting-room. But before long both Fynes became frightened.
Fyne she said to that lady: "I do hope the child will manage to be cheerful. I can't have sad faces near me. At my age one needs cheerful companions." And in this hope she carried off Flora de Barral to Bournemouth for the winter months in the quality of reader and companion. She had said to her with kindly jocularity: "We shall have a good time together. I am not a grumpy old woman."
Fyne, in remembering the details, in finding adequate words or any words at all was in itself a terribly enlightening, an ageing process. She had talked a long time, uninterrupted by Mrs. Fyne, childlike enough in her wonder and pain, pausing now and then to interject the pitiful query: "It was cruel of her. Wasn't it cruel, Mrs. Fyne?" For Charley she found excuses.
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