. . "
"I wouldn't dream of offending you," I said.
"Very well. But meantime please remember that I was not married to Mrs.
Fyne. That lady's little finger was none of my legal property. I had
not run off with it. It was Fyne who had done that thing. Let him be
wound round as much as his backbone could stand--or even more, for all I
cared. His rushing away from the discussion on the transparent pretence
of quieting the dog confirmed my notion of there being a considerable
strain on his elasticity. I confronted Mrs. Fyne resolved not to assist
her in her eminently feminine occupation of thrusting a stick in the
spokes of another woman's wheel.
She tried to preserve her calm-eyed superiority. She was familiar and
olympian, fenced in by the tea-table, that excellent symbol of domestic
life in its lighter hour and its perfect security. In a few severely
unadorned words she gave me to understand that she had ventured to hope
for some really helpful suggestion from me. To this almost chiding
declaration--because my vindictiveness seldom goes further than a bit of
teasing--I said that I was really doing my best.
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