also concealed mudholes in there. We crept and tumbled and felt about
with our hands along the ground. We got wet, scratched, and plastered
with mire all over our nether garments. Fyne fell suddenly into a
strange cavity--probably a disused lime-kiln. His voice uplifted in
grave distress sounded more than usually rich, solemn and profound. This
was the comic relief of an absurdly dramatic situation. While hauling
him out I permitted myself to laugh aloud at last. Fyne, of course,
didn't.

I need not tell you that we found nothing after a most conscientious
search. Fyne even pushed his way into a decaying shed half-buried in dew-
soaked vegetation. He struck matches, several of them too, as if to make
absolutely sure that the vanished girl-friend of his wife was not hiding
there. The short flares illuminated his grave, immovable countenance
while I let myself go completely and laughed in peals.

I asked him if he really and truly supposed that any sane girl would go
and hide in that shed; and if so why?

Disdainful of my mirth he merely muttered his basso-profundo thankfulness
that we had not found her anywhere about there. Having grown extremely
sensitive (an effect of irritation) to the tonalities, I may say, of this
affair, I felt that it was only an imperfect, reserved, thankfulness,
with one eye still on the possibilities of the several ponds in the
neighbourhood. And I remember I snorted, I positively snorted, at that
poor Fyne.

What really jarred upon me was the rate of his walking. Differences in
politics, in ethics and even in aesthetics need not arouse angry
antagonism. One's opinion may change; one's tastes may alter--in fact