e of the hedge, its troubled
gaze fixed forward, and the mind inside obviously employed in earnest
speculation of an intricate nature. One at least of his wife's
girl-friends had become more than a mere shadow for him. I surmised
however that it was not of the girl-friend but of his wife that Fyne was
thinking. He was an excellent husband.

I prepared myself for the afternoon's hospitalities, calling in the
farmer's wife and reviewing with her the resources of the house and the
village. She was a helpful woman. But the resources of my sagacity I
did not review. Except in the gross material sense of the afternoon tea
I made _no_ preparations for Mrs Fyne.

It was impossible for me to make any such preparations. I could not
tell what sort of sustenance she would look for from my sagacity. And
as to taking stock of the wares of my mind no one I imagine is anxious
to do that sort of thing if it can be avoided. A vaguely grandiose
state of mental self-confidence is much too agreeable to be disturbed
recklessly by such a delicate investigation. Perhaps if I had had a
helpful woman at my elbow, a dear, flattering acute, devoted woman...
There are in life moments when one positively regrets not being married.
No! I don't exaggerate. I have said--moments, not years or even days.
Moments. The farmer's wife obviously could not be asked to assist.
She could not have been expected to possess the necessary insight and I
doubt whether she would have known how to be nattering enough. She was
being helpful in her own way, with an extraordinary black bonnet on her
head, a good mile off by that time, trying to discover in the village
shops a piece of eatable cake. The pluck of women! The optimism of the
dear creatures!

And she managed to find something which looked eatable. That's all I
know as I had no opportunity to observe the more intimate effects of
that comestible. I myself never eat cake, and Mrs Fyne, when she
arrived punctually, brought with her no appetite for cake. She had no
appetite for anything. But she had a thirst--the sign of deep, of
tormenting emotion. Yes it was emotion, not the brilliant sunshine--
more brilliant than warm as is the way of our discreet self-repressed,
distinguished, insular sun, which would not turn a real lady scarlet--
not on any account. Mrs Fyne looked even cool. She wore a white skirt
and coat; a white hat with a large brim reposed on her smoothly arranged
hair. The co