The man actually hinted broadly that such was his belief and in face of
Fyne's guarded replies gave him to understand that he was not the dupe of
such reticences. Obviously he looked upon the Fynes as being
disappointed because the girl was taken away from them. They, by a
diplomatic sacrifice in the interests of poor Flora, had asked the man to
dinner. He accepted ungraciously, remarking that he was not used to late
hours. He had generally a bit of supper about half-past eight or nine.
However . . .
He gazed contemptuously round the prettily decorated dining-room. He
wrinkled his nose in a puzzled way at the dishes offered to him by the
waiter but refused none, devouring the food with a great appetite and
drinking ("swilling" Fyne called it) gallons of ginger beer, which was
procured for him (in stone bottles) at his request. The difficulty of
keeping up a conversation with that being exhausted Mrs. Fyne herself,
who had come to the table armed with adamantine resolution. The only
memorable thing he said was when, in a pause of gorging himself "with
these French dishes" he deliberately let his eyes roam over the little
tables occupied by parties of diners, and remarked that his wife did for
a moment think of coming down with him, but that he was glad she didn't
do so.
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