A silence fell. Fyne's several expressions were so many examples of
varied consistency. This was the discomfiture of solemnity. My interest
of course was revived.

"But hold on," I said. "They didn't go together. Is it a suspicion or
does she actually say that . . . "

"She has gone after him," stated Fyne in comminatory tones. "By previous
arrangement. She confesses that much."

He added that it was very shocking. I asked him whether he should have
preferred them going off together; and on what ground he based that
preference. This was sheer fun for me in regard of the fact that Fyne's
too was a runaway match, which even got into the papers in its time,
because the late indignant poet had no discretion and sought to avenge
this outrage publicly in some absurd way before a bewigged judge. The
dejected gesture of little Fyne's hand disarmed my mocking mood. But I
could not help expressing my surprise that Mrs. Fyne had not detected at
once what was brewing. Women were supposed to have an unerring eye.

He told me that his wife had been very much engaged in a certain work. I
had always wondered how she occupied her time. It was in writing. Like
her husband she too published a little book. Much later on I came upon
it. It had nothing to do with pedestrianism. It was a sort of hand-book
for women with grievances (and all women had them), a sort of compendious
theory and practice of feminine free morality. It made you laugh at its
transparent simplicity. But that authorship was revealed to me much
later. I didn't of course ask Fyne what work his wife was engaged on;
but I marvelled to myself at her complete ignorance of the world, of her