I played chess with
Fyne in the late afternoon, and sometimes came over to the cottage early
enough to have tea with the whole family at a big round table. They sat
about it, an unsmiling, sunburnt company of very few words indeed. Even
the children were silent and as if contemptuous of each other and of
their elders. Fyne muttered sometimes deep down in his chest some
insignificant remark. Mrs. Fyne smiled mechanically (she had splendid
teeth) while distributing tea and bread and butter. A something which
was not coldness, nor yet indifference, but a sort of peculiar
self-possession gave her the appearance of a very trustworthy, very
capable and excellent governess; as if Fyne were a widower and the
children not her own but only entrusted to her calm, efficient,
unemotional care. One expected her to address Fyne as Mr. When she
called him John it surprised one like a shocking familiarity. The
atmosphere of that holiday was--if I may put it so--brightly dull.
Healthy faces, fair complexions, clear eyes, and never a frank smile in
the whole lot, unless perhaps from a girl-friend.
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