"You stopped her with your own hand, Mrs. Fyne," I said. "I presume she
meant to get away. That girl is no comedian--if I am any judge."
"Yes! I had to use some force to drag her in."
Mrs. Fyne had no difficulty in stating the truth. "You see I was in the
very act of letting myself out when these two appeared. So that, when
that unpleasant young man ran off, I found myself alone with Flora. It
was all I could do to hold her in the hall while I called to the servants
to come and shut the door."
As is my habit, or my weakness, or my gift, I don't know which, I
visualized the story for myself. I really can't help it. And the vision
of Mrs. Fyne dressed for a rather special afternoon function, engaged in
wrestling with a wild-eyed, white-faced girl had a certain dramatic
fascination.
"Really!" I murmured.
"Oh! There's no doubt that she struggled," said Mrs. Fyne. She
compressed her lips for a moment and then added: "As to her being a
comedian that's another question."
Mrs. Fyne had returned to her attitude of folded arms. I saw before me
the daughter of the refined poet accepting life whole with its
unavoidable conditions of which one of the first is the instinct of self-
preservation and the egoism of every living creature.
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