insolent manner of
the governess. Fyne stood by her side, as in those old-fashioned
photographs of married couples where you see a husband with his hand on
the back of his wife's chair. And they were about as efficient as an
old photograph, and as still, till Mrs Fyne started slightly. The
street door had swung open, and, bursting out, appeared the young man,
his hat (Mrs Fyne observed) tilted forward over his eyes. After him
the governess slipped through, turning round at once to shut the door
behind her with care. Meantime the man went down the white steps and
strode along the pavement, his hands rammed deep into the pockets of his
fawn overcoat. The woman, that woman of composed movements, of
deliberate superior manner, took a little run to catch up with him, and
directly she had caught up with him tried to introduce her hand under
his arm. Mrs Fyne saw the brusque half turn of the fellow's body as
one avoids an importunate contact, defeating her attempt rudely. She
did not try again but kept pace with his stride, and Mrs Fyne watched
them, walking independently, turn the corner of the street side by side,
disappear for ever.

The Fynes looked at each other eloquently, doubtfully: What do you think
of this? Then with common accord turned their eyes back to the street
door, closed, massive, dark; the great, clear-brass knocker shining in a
quiet slant of sunshine cut by a diagonal line of heavy shade filling
the further end of the street. Could the girl be already gone? Sent
away to her father? Had she any relations? Nobody but de Barral
himself ever came to see her, Mrs Fyne remembered; and she had the
instantaneous, profound, maternal perception of the child's loneliness--
and a girl too! It was irresistible. And, besides, the departure of
the governess was not without its encouraging influence. "I am going
over at once to find out," she declared resolutely but still staring
across the street. Her intention was arrested by the sight of that
awful, sombrely glistening door, swinging back suddenly on the yawning
darkness of the hall, out of which literally flew out, right out on the
pavement, almost without touching the white steps, a little figure
swathed in a holland pinafore up to the chin, its hair streaming back
from its head, darting past a lamp-post, past the red pillar-box...
"Here," cried Mrs Fyne; "she's coming here! Run, John! Run!"

Fyne bounded out of the room. This is his own word.