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I would have liked
to ask her for instance: "Do you know what you have done with yourself?"
A question like that. Anyhow it was time for one of us to say something.
A question it must be. And the question I asked was: "So he's going to
show you the ship?"
She seemed glad I had spoken at last and glad of the opportunity to speak
herself.
"Yes. He said he would--this morning. Did you say you did not know
Captain Anthony?"
"No. I don't know him. Is he anything like his sister?"
She looked startled and murmured "Sister!" in a puzzled tone which
astonished me. "Oh! Mrs. Fyne," she exclaimed, recollecting herself,
and avoiding my eyes while I looked at her curiously.
What an extraordinary detachment! And all the time the stream of shabby
people was hastening by us, with the continuous dreary shuffling of weary
footsteps on the flagstones. The sunshine falling on the grime of
surfaces, on the poverty of tones and forms seemed of an inferior
quality, its joy faded, its brilliance tarnished and dusty. I had to
raise my voice in the dull vibrating noise of the roadway.


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