I raised my hand to stop my friend Marlow.
"Do you really believe what you have said?" I asked, meaning no offence,
because with Marlow one never could be sure.
"Only on certain days of the year," said Marlow readily with a malicious
smile. "To-day I have been simply trying to be spacious and I perceive
I've managed to hurt your susceptibilities which are consecrated to
women. When you sit alone and silent you are defending in your mind the
poor women from attacks which cannot possibly touch them. I wonder what
can touch them? But to soothe your uneasiness I will point out again
that an Irrelevant world would be very amusing, if the women take care to
make it as charming as they alone can, by preserving for us certain well-
known, well-established, I'll almost say hackneyed, illusions, without
which the average male creature cannot get on. And that condition is
very important. For there is nothing more provoking than the Irrelevant
when it has ceased to amuse and charm; and then the danger would be of
the subjugated masculinity in its exasperation, making some brusque,
unguarded movement and accidentally putting its elbow through the fine
tissue of the world of which I speak. And that would be fatal to it. For
nothing looks more irretrievably deplorable than fine tissue which has
been damaged. The women themselves would be the first to become
disgusted with their own creation.
There was something of women's highly practical sanity and also of their
irrelevancy in the conduct of Miss de Barral's amazing governess. 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. Fyne himself was down there with his family for a whole
week and was called to the window to behold the iniquity in its progress
and to share in his wife's feelings. There was not even a groom with
them. And Mrs. Fyne's distress was so strong at this glimpse of the
unlucky girl all unconscious of her danger riding smilingly by, that Fyne
began to consider seriously whether it wasn't their plain duty to
interfere at all risks--simply by writing a letter to de Barral. He said
to his wife with a solemnity I can easily imagine "You ought to undertake
that task, my dear. You have known his wife after all. That's something
at any rate." On the other hand the fear of exposing Mrs. Fyne to some
nasty rebuff worried him exceedingly. Mrs. Fyne on her side gave way to
despondency. Success seemed impossible. Here was a woman for more than
five years in charge of the girl and apparently enjoying the complete
confidence of the father. What, that would be effective, could one say,
without proofs, without . . . This Mr. de Barral must be, Mrs. Fyne
pronounced, either a very stupid or a downright bad man, to neglect his
child so.