kfast was at eight sharp. Mrs Fyne's polite stoicism overcame him
at last. He had come down at a very great personal inconvenience, he
assured her with displeasure, but he gave up the early train.

The good Fynes didn't dare to look at each other before this unforeseen
but perfectly authorised guardian, the same thought springing up in
their minds: Poor girl! Poor girl! If the women of the family were
like this too! ... And of course they would be. Poor girl! But what
could they have done even if they had been prepared to raise objections.
The person in the frock-coat had the father's, note; he had shown it to
Fyne. Just a request to take care of the girl--as her nearest
relative--without any explanation or a single allusion to the financial
catastrophe, its tone strangely detached and in its very silence on the
point giving occasion to think that the writer was not uneasy as to the
child's future. Probably it was that very idea which had set the cousin
so readily in motion. Men had come before out of commercial crashes
with estates in the country and a comfortable income, if not for
themselves then for their wives. And if a wife could be made
comfortable by a little dexterous management then why not a daughter?
Yes. This possibility might have been discussed in the person's
household and judged worth acting upon.--

The man actually hinted broadly that such was his belief and in face of
Fyne's guarded replies gave him to understand that he was not the dupe
of such reticences. Obviously he looked upon the Fynes as being
disappointed because the girl was taken away from them. They, by a
diplomatic sacrifice in the interests of poor Flora, had asked the man
to dinner. He accepted ungraciously, remarking that he was not used to
late hours. He had generally a bit of supper about half-past eight or
nine. However ...

He gazed contemptuously round the prettily decorated dining-room. He
wrinkled his nose in a puzzled way at the dishes offered to him by the
waiter but refused none, devouring the food with a great appetite and
drinking ("swilling" Fyne called it) gallons of ginger beer, which was
procured for him (in stone bottles) at his request. The difficulty of
keeping up a conversation with that being exhausted Mrs Fyne herself,
who had come to the table armed with adamantine resolution. The only
memorable thing he said was when, in a pause of gorging himself "with
these French dishes" he deliberately