"
Fyne got up suddenly with a muttered "No, evidently not." He was gloomy,
hesitating. I supposed that he would not wish to play chess that
afternoon. This would dispense me from leaving my rooms on a day much
too fine to be wasted in walking exercise. And I was disappointed when
picking up his cap he intimated to me his hope of seeing me at the
cottage about four o'clock--as usual.
"It wouldn't be as usual." I put a particular stress on that remark. He
admitted, after a short reflection, that it would not be. No. Not as
usual. In fact it was his wife who hoped, rather, for my presence. She
had formed a very favourable opinion of my practical sagacity.
This was the first I ever heard of it. I had never suspected that Mrs.
Fyne had taken the trouble to distinguish in me the signs of sagacity or
folly. The few words we had exchanged last night in the excitement--or
the bother--of the girl's disappearance, were the first moderately
significant words which had ever passed between us. I had felt myself
always to be in Mrs. Fyne's view her husband's chess-player and nothing
else--a convenience--almost an implement.
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