To my laconic invitation to come
in for a drink he answered by a deep, gravely accented: "Thanks, I will"
as though it were a response in church. His face as seen in the
lamplight gave me no clue to the character of the impending
communication; as indeed from the nature of things it couldn't do, its
normal expression being already that of the utmost possible seriousness.
It was perfect and immovable; and for a certainty if he had something
excruciatingly funny to tell me it would be all the same.
He gazed at me earnestly and delivered himself of some weighty remarks on
Mrs. Fyne's desire to befriend, counsel, and guide young girls of all
sorts on the path of life. It was a voluntary mission. He approved his
wife's action and also her views and principles in general.
All this with a solemn countenance and in deep measured tones. Yet
somehow I got an irresistible conviction that he was exasperated by
something in particular. In the unworthy hope of being amused by the
misfortunes of a fellow-creature I asked him point-blank what was wrong
now.
What was wrong was that a girl-friend was missing.
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