"You know he had not opened his lips all that time," she pursued.
"I don't blame his restraint. On the contrary. What could he have said?
I could see he was observing the man very thoughtfully."
"And so, Mr. Fyne listened, observed and meditated," I said. "That's an
excellent way of coming to a conclusion. And may I ask at what
conclusion he had managed to arrive? On what ground did he cease to
wonder at the inexplicable? For I can't admit humanity to be the
explanation. It would be too monstrous."
It was nothing of the sort, Mrs. Fyne assured me with some resentment, as
though I had aspersed little Fyne's sanity. Fyne very sensibly had set
himself the mental task of discovering the self-interest. I should not
have thought him capable of so much cynicism. He said to himself that
for people of that sort (religious fears or the vanity of righteousness
put aside) money--not great wealth, but money, just a little money--is
the measure of virtue, of expediency, of wisdom--of pretty well
everything. But the girl was absolutely destitute. The father was in
prison after the most terribly complete and disgraceful smash of modern
times.
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