"We were having some people to dinner," said the anxious sister of
Captain Anthony.
She had heard the front door bell and wondered what it might mean. The
parlourmaid managed to whisper to her without attracting attention. The
servants had been frightened by the invasion of that wild girl in a muddy
skirt and with wisps of damp hair sticking to her pale cheeks. But they
had seen her before. This was not the first occasion, nor yet the last.
Directly she could slip away from her guests Mrs. Fyne ran upstairs.
"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 nightlight 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. She had to
go back to her guests.
A most disagreeable surprise it must have been to the Fynes. Afterwards
they both went up and interviewed the girl. She jumped up at their
entrance. She had shaken her damp hair loose; her eyes were dry--with
the heat of rage.
I can imagine little Fyne solemnly sympathetic, solemnly listening,
solemnly retreating to the marital bedroom. Mrs. Fyne pacified the girl,
and, fortunately, there was a bed which could be made up for her in the
dressing-room.
"But--what could one do after all!" concluded Mrs. Fyne.
And this stereotyped exclamation, expressing the difficulty of the
problem and the readiness (at any rate) of good intentions, made me, as
usual, feel more kindly towards her.
Next morning, very early, long before Fyne had to start for his office,
the "odious personage" turned up, not exactly unexpected perhaps, but
startling all the same, if only by the promptness of his action. From
what Flora herself related to Mrs. Fyne, it seems that without being very
perceptibly less "odious" than his family he had in a rather mysterious
fashion interposed his authority for the protection of the girl. "Not
that he cares," explained Flora. "I am sure he does not. I could not
stand being liked by any of these people. If I thought he liked me I
would drown myself rather than go back with him."
For of course he had come to take "Florrie" home. The scene was the
dining-room--breakfast interrupted, dishes growing cold, little Fyne's
toast growing leathery, Fyne out of his chair with his back to the fire,
the newspaper on the carpet, servants shut out, Mrs. Fyne rigid in her
place with the girl sitting beside her--the "odious person," who had
bustled in with hardly a greeting, looking from Fyne to Mrs. Fyne as
though he were inwardly amused at something he knew of them; and then
beginning ironically his discourse. He did not apologize for disturbing
Fyne and his "good lady" at breakfast, because he knew they did not want
(with a nod at the girl) to have more of her than could be helped. He
came the first possible moment because he had his business to attend to.
He wasn't drawing a tip-top salary (this staring at Fyne) in a
luxuriously furnished office. Not he. He had risen to be an employer of
labour and was bound to give a good example.