Mrs. Fyne remained pleased. She could now forget
them comfortably and give herself up to the delights of audacious thought
and literary composition. Only a week before the blow fell she,
happening to raise her eyes from the paper, saw two figures seated on the
grass under the shade of the elms. She could make out the white blouse.
There could be no mistake.
"I suppose they imagined themselves concealed by the hedge. They forgot
no doubt I was working in the garret," she said bitterly. "Or perhaps
they didn't care. They were right. I am rather a simple person . . . "
She laughed again . . . "I was incapable of suspecting such duplicity."
"Duplicity is a strong word, Mrs. Fyne--isn't it?" I expostulated. "And
considering that Captain Anthony himself . . . "
"Oh well--perhaps," she interrupted me. Her eyes which never strayed
away from mine, her set features, her whole immovable figure, how well I
knew those appearances of a person who has "made up her mind." A very
hopeless condition that, specially in women. I mistrusted her concession
so easily, so stonily made.
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