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