ing if it can be avoided. A vaguely grandiose state of
mental self-confidence is much too agreeable to be disturbed recklessly
by such a delicate investigation. Perhaps if I had had a helpful woman
at my elbow, a dear, flattering acute, devoted woman . . . There are in
life moments when one positively regrets not being married. No! I don't
exaggerate. I have said--moments, not years or even days. Moments. The
farmer's wife obviously could not be asked to assist. She could not have
been expected to possess the necessary insight and I doubt whether she
would have known how to be flattering enough. She was being helpful in
her own way, with an extraordinary black bonnet on her head, a good mile
off by that time, trying to discover in the village shops a piece of
eatable cake. The pluck of women! The optimism of the dear creatures!

And she managed to find something which looked eatable. That's all I
know as I had no opportunity to observe the more intimate effects of that
comestible. I myself never eat cake, and Mrs. Fyne, when she arrived
punctually, brought with her no appetite for cake. She had no appetite
for anything. But she had a thirst--the sign of deep, of tormenting
emotion. Yes it was emotion, not the brilliant sunshine--more brilliant
than warm as is the way of our discreet self-repressed, distinguished,
insular sun, which would not turn a real lady scarlet--not on any
account. Mrs. Fyne looked even cool. She wore a white skirt and coat; a
white hat with a large brim reposed on her smoothly arranged hair. The
coat was cut something like an army mess-jacket and the style suited her.
I dare say there are many youthful subalterns, and not the worst-looking
too, who resemble Mrs. Fyne in the type of face, in the sunburnt
complexion, down to that something alert in bearing. But not many would
have had that aspect breathing a readiness to assume any responsibility
under Heaven. This is the sort of courage which ripens late in life and
of course Mrs. Fyne was of mature years for all her unwrinkled face.

She looked round the room, told me positively that I was very comfortable
there; to which I assented, humbly, acknowledging my undeserved good
fortune.

"Why undeserved?" she wanted to know.

"I engaged these rooms by letter without asking any questions. It might
have been an abominable hole," I explained to her. "I always do things
like that. I don't like to be bothered. This is no great pr