Perhaps she had not the power
of evoking sympathy, that personal gift of direct appeal to the feelings.
I said to Fyne, mistrusting the supine attitude of the dog:
"Why don't you let him come inside?"
Oh dear no! He couldn't think of it! I might indeed have saved my
breath, I knew it was one of the Fynes' rules of life, part of their
solemnity and responsibility, one of those things that were part of their
unassertive but ever present superiority, that their dog must not be
allowed in. It was most improper to intrude the dog into the houses of
the people they were calling on--if it were only a careless bachelor in
farmhouse lodgings and a personal friend of the dog. It was out of the
question. But they would let him bark one's sanity away outside one's
window. They were strangely consistent in their lack of imaginative
sympathy. I didn't insist but simply led the way back to the parlour,
hoping that no wayfarer would happen along the lane for the next hour or
so to disturb the dog's composure.
Mrs. Fyne seated immovable before the table charged with plates, cups,
jugs, a cold teapot, crumbs, and the general litter of the entertainment
turned her head towards us.
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