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"The fact remains
nevertheless that you--yourself--have, in your own words, pulled her in,"
I insisted in a jocular tone, with a serious intention.
"What was one to do," exclaimed Mrs. Fyne with almost comic exasperation.
"Are you reproaching me with being too impulsive?"
And she went on telling me that she was not that in the least. One of
the recommendations she always insisted on (to the girl-friends, I
imagine) was to be on guard against impulse. Always! But I had not been
there to see the face of Flora at the time. If I had it would be
haunting me to this day. Nobody unless made of iron would have allowed a
human being with a face like that to rush out alone into the streets.
"And doesn't it haunt you, Mrs. Fyne?" I asked.
"No, not now," she said implacably. "Perhaps if I had let her go it
might have done . . . Don't conclude, though, that I think she was
playing a comedy then, because after struggling at first she ended by
remaining. She gave up very suddenly. She collapsed in our arms, mine
and the maid's who came running up in response to my calls, and .


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