But when Fyne and I got back into the room, then in the searching,
domestic, glare of the lamp, inimical to the play of fancy, I saw these
two stripped of every vesture it had amused me to put on them for fun.
Queer enough they were. Is there a human being that isn't that--more or
less secretly? But whatever their secret, it was manifest to me that it
was neither subtle nor profound. They were a good, stupid, earnest
couple and very much bothered. They were that--with the usual unshaded
crudity of average people. There was nothing in them that the lamplight
might not touch without the slightest risk of indiscretion.
Directly we had entered the room Fyne announced the result by saying
"Nothing" in the same tone as at the gate on his return from the railway
station. And as then Mrs. Fyne uttered an incisive "It's what I've
said," which might have been the veriest echo of her words in the garden.
We three looked at each other as if on the brink of a disclosure. I
don't know whether she was vexed at my presence. It could hardly be
called intrusion--could it? Little Fyne began it.
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