Fyne sitting by patiently, her arms folded, yet inwardly moved by the
riddle of that distress of which she could not guess the word, and saying
to herself: "That child is too emotional--much too emotional to be ever
really sound!" As if anyone not made of stone could be perfectly sound
in this world. And then how sound? In what sense--to resist what? Force
or corruption? And even in the best armour of steel there are joints a
treacherous stroke can always find if chance gives the opportunity.

General considerations never had the power to trouble Mrs. Fyne much. The
girl not being in a state to be questioned she waited by the bedside.
Fyne had crossed over to the house, his scruples overcome by his anxiety
to discover what really had happened. He did not have to lift the
knocker; the door stood open on the inside gloom of the hall; he walked
into it and saw no one about, the servants having assembled for a fatuous
consultation in the basement. Fyne's uplifted bass voice startled them
down there, the butler coming up, staring and in his shirt sleeves, very
suspicious at first, and then, on Fyne's explanation that he was the
husband of a lady who had called several times at the house--Miss de
Barral's mother's friend--becoming humanely concerned and communicative,
in a man to man tone, but preserving his trained high-class servant's
voice: "Oh bless you, sir, no! She does not mean to come back. She told
me so herself"--he assured Fyne with a faint shade of contempt creeping
into his tone.

As regards their young lady nobody downstairs had any idea that she had
run out of the house. He dared say they all would have been willing to
do their very best for her, for the time being; but since she was now
with her mother's friends . . .

He fidgeted. He murmured that all this was very unexpected. He wanted