She had a little colour now.
She looked straight before her; the corner of her lip on my side drooped
a little; her chin was fine, somewhat pointed. I went on to say that
some regard for others should stand in the way of one's playing with
danger. I urged playfully the distress of the poor Fynes in case of
accident, if nothing else. I told her that she did not know the bucolic
mind. Had she given occasion for a coroner's inquest the verdict would
have been suicide, with the implication of unhappy love. They would
never be able to understand that she had taken the trouble to climb over
two post-and-rail fences only for the fun of being reckless. Indeed even
as I talked chaffingly I was greatly struck myself by the fact.
She retorted that once one was dead what horrid people thought of one did
not matter. It was said with infinite contempt; but something like a
suppressed quaver in the voice made me look at her again. I perceived
then that her thick eyelashes were wet. This surprising discovery
silenced me as you may guess. She looked unhappy. And--I don't know how
to say it--well--it suited her.
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