She had no appetite
for anything. But she had a thirst--the sign of deep, of tormenting
emotion. Yes it was emotion, not the brilliant sunshine--more brilliant
than warm as is the way of our discreet self-repressed, distinguished,
insular sun, which would not turn a real lady scarlet--not on any
account. Mrs. Fyne looked even cool. She wore a white skirt and coat; a
white hat with a large brim reposed on her smoothly arranged hair. The
coat was cut something like an army mess-jacket and the style suited her.
I dare say there are many youthful subalterns, and not the worst-looking
too, who resemble Mrs. Fyne in the type of face, in the sunburnt
complexion, down to that something alert in bearing. But not many would
have had that aspect breathing a readiness to assume any responsibility
under Heaven. This is the sort of courage which ripens late in life and
of course Mrs. Fyne was of mature years for all her unwrinkled face.
She looked round the room, told me positively that I was very comfortable
there; to which I assented, humbly, acknowledging my undeserved good
fortune.
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