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She had
cried at the desertion of the absurd Fyne dog. That animal was certainly
free from duplicity. He was frank and simple and ridiculous. The
indignation of the girl at his unhypocritical behaviour had been funny
but not humorous.
As you may imagine I was not very anxious to resume the discussion on the
justice, expediency, effectiveness or what not, of Fyne's journey to
London. It isn't that I was unfaithful to little Fyne out in the porch
with the dog. (They kept amazingly quiet there. Could they have gone to
sleep?) What I felt was that either my sagacity or my conscience would
come out damaged from that campaign. And no man will willingly put
himself in the way of moral damage. I did not want a war with Mrs. Fyne.
I much preferred to hear something more of the girl. I said:
"And so she went away with that respectable ruffian."
Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders slightly--"What else could she have done?"
I agreed with her by another hopeless gesture. It isn't so easy for a
girl like Flora de Barral to become a factory hand, a pathetic seamstress
or even a barmaid.


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