A short reflective pause--and Fyne accepted eagerly in his own and his
wife's name. A moment after I heard the click of the gate-latch and then
in an ecstasy of barking from his demonstrative dog his serious head went
past my window on the other side of the hedge, its troubled gaze fixed
forward, and the mind inside obviously employed in earnest speculation of
an intricate nature. One at least of his wife's girl-friends had become
more than a mere shadow for him. I surmised however that it was not of
the girl-friend but of his wife that Fyne was thinking. He was an
excellent husband.
I prepared myself for the afternoon's hospitalities, calling in the
farmer's wife and reviewing with her the resources of the house and the
village. She was a helpful woman. But the resources of my sagacity I
did not review. Except in the gross material sense of the afternoon tea
I made no preparations for Mrs. Fyne.
It was impossible for me to make any such preparations. I could not tell
what sort of sustenance she would look for from my sagacity. And as to
taking stock of the wares of my mind no one I imagine is anxious to do
that sort of thing if it can be avoided. A vaguely grandiose state of
mental self-confidence is much too agreeable to be disturbed recklessly
by such a delicate investigation. Perhaps if I had had a helpful woman
at my elbow, a dear, flattering acute, devoted woman . . . There are in
life moments when one positively regrets not being married. No! I don't
exaggerate. I have said--moments, not years or even days. Moments. The
farmer's wife obviously could not be asked to assist. She could not have
been expected to possess the necessary insight and I doubt whether she
would have known how to be flattering enough. She was being helpful in
her own way, with an extraordinary black bonnet on her head, a good mile
off by that time, trying to discover in the village shops a piece of
eatable cake. The pluck of women! The optimism of the dear creatures!
And she managed to find something which looked eatable. That's all I
know as I had no opportunity to observe the more intimate effects of that
comestible. I myself never eat cake, and Mrs. Fyne, when she arrived
punctually, brought with her no appetite for cake. She had no appetite
for anything. But she had a thirst--the sign of deep, of tormenting
emotion. Yes it was emotion, not the brilliant sunshine--more brilliant
than warm as is the way of our discreet self-repressed, distinguished,
insular sun, which would not turn a real lady scarlet--not on any
account. Mrs. Fyne looked even cool. She wore a white skirt and coat; a
white hat with a large brim reposed on her smoothly arranged hair. The
coat was cut something like an army mess-jacket and the style suited her.
I dare say there are many youthful subalterns, and not the worst-looking
too, who resemble Mrs. Fyne in the type of face, in the sunburnt
complexion, down to that something alert in bearing. But not many would
have had that aspect breathing a readiness to assume any responsibility
under Heaven. This is the sort of courage which ripens late in life and
of course Mrs. Fyne was of mature years for all her unwrinkled face.