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I turned to him with false
simplicity. "Don't you agree with me?"
"The very thing I've been telling my wife," he exclaimed in his extra-
manly bass. "We have been discussing--"
A discussion in the Fyne menage! How portentous! Perhaps the very first
difference they had ever had: Mrs. Fyne unflinching and ready for any
responsibility, Fyne solemn and shrinking--the children in bed upstairs;
and outside the dark fields, the shadowy contours of the land on the
starry background of the universe, with the crude light of the open
window like a beacon for the truant who would never come back now; a
truant no longer but a downright fugitive. Yet a fugitive carrying off
spoils. It was the flight of a raider--or a traitor? This affair of the
purloined brother, as I had named it to myself, had a very puzzling
physiognomy. The girl must have been desperate, I thought, hearing the
grave voice of Fyne well enough but catching the sense of his words not
at all, except the very last words which were:
"Of course, it's extremely distressing."
I looked at him inquisitively.


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