And being a
physiognomist . . . "
"Being what?" she interrupted me.
"A physiognomist," I repeated raising my voice a little. "A
physiognomist, Mrs. Fyne. And on the principles of that science a
pointed little chin is a sufficient ground for interference. You want to
interfere--do you not?"
Her eyes grew distinctly bigger. She had never been bantered before in
her life. The late subtle poet's method of making himself unpleasant was
merely savage and abusive. Fyne had been always solemnly subservient.
What other men she knew I cannot tell but I assume they must have been
gentlemanly creatures. The girl-friends sat at her feet. How could she
recognize my intention. She didn't know what to make of my tone.
"Are you serious in what you say?" she asked slowly. And it was
touching. It was as if a very young, confiding girl had spoken. I felt
myself relenting.
"No. I am not, Mrs. Fyne," I said. "I didn't know I was expected to be
serious as well as sagacious. No. That science is farcical and
therefore I am not serious. It's true that most sciences are farcical
except those which teach us how to put things together.
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