I recovered very quickly. The
order of the world was safe enough. He was a civil servant and she his
good and faithful wife. But when it comes to dealing with human beings
anything, anything may be expected. So even my astonishment did not last
very long. How far she developed and illustrated that conscienceless and
austere doctrine to the girl-friends, who were mere transient shadows to
her husband, I could not tell. Any length I supposed. And he looked on,
acquiesced, approved, just for that very reason--because these pretty
girls were but shadows to him. O! Most virtuous Fyne! He cast his eyes
down. He didn't like it. But I eyed him with hidden animosity for he
had got me to run after him under somewhat false pretences.

Mrs. Fyne had only smiled at me very expressively, very self-confidently.
"Oh I quite understand that you accept the fullest responsibility," I
said. "I am the only ridiculous person in this--this--I don't know how
to call it--performance. However, I've nothing more to do here, so I'll
say good-night--or good morning, for it must be past one."

But before departing, in common decency, I offered to take any wires they
might write. My lodgings were nearer the post-office than the cottage
and I would send them off the first thing in the morning. I supposed
they would wish to communicate, if only as to the disposal of the
luggage, with the young lady's relatives . . .

Fyne, he looked rather downcast by then, thanked me and declined.

"There is really no one," he said, very grave.

"No one," I exclaimed.

"Practically," said curt Mrs. Fyne.

And my curiosity was aroused again.

"Ah! I see. An orphan."

Mrs. Fyne looked away weary and sombre, and Fyne said "Yes" impulsively,
and then qualified the affirmative by the quaint statement: "To a certain
extent."

I became conscious of a languid, exhausted embarrassment, bowed to Mrs.
Fyne, and went out of the cottage to be confronted outside its door by
the bespangled, cruel revelation of the Immensity of the Universe. The
night was not sufficiently advanced for the stars to have paled; and the
earth seemed to me more profoundly asleep--perhaps because I was alone
now. Not having Fyne with me to set the pace I let myself drift, rather
than walk, in the direction of the farmhouse. To drift is the only
reposeful sort of motion (ask any ship if it isn't) and therefore
consistent with thoughtfulness. And I pondered: How is one an or