extremely distressing."

I looked at him inquisitively. What was distressing him? The
purloining of the son of the poet-tyrant by the daughter of the
financier-convict. Or only, if I may say so, the wind of their flight
disturbing the solemn placidity of the Fynes' domestic atmosphere. My
incertitude did not last long, for he added:

"Mrs Fyne urges me to go to London at once."

One could guess at, almost see, his profound distaste for the journey,
his distress at a difference of feeling with his wife. With his serious
view of the sublunary comedy Fyne suffered from not being able to agree
solemnly with her sentiment as he was accustomed to do, in recognition
of having had his way in one supreme instance; when he made her elope
with him--the most momentous step imaginable in a young lady's life. He
had been really trying to acknowledge it by taking the Tightness of her
feeling for granted on every other occasion. It had become a sort of
habit at last. And it is never pleasant to break a habit. The man was
deeply troubled. I said: "Really! To go to London!"

He looked dumbly into my eyes. It was pathetic and funny. "And you of
course feel it would be useless," I pursued.

He evidently felt that, though he said nothing. He only went on
blinking at me with a solemn and comical slowness. "Unless it be to
carry there the family's blessing," I went on, indulging my chaffing
humour steadily, in a rather sneaking fashion, for I dared not look at
Mrs Fyne, to my right. No sound or movement came from, that direction.
"You think very naturally that to match mere good, sound reasons,
against the passionate conclusions of love is a waste of intellect
bordering on the absurd."

He looked surprised as if I had discovered something very clever. He,
dear man, had thought of nothing at all. He simply knew that he did not
want to go to London on that mission. Mere masculine delicacy. In a
moment he became enthusiastic.

"Yes! Yes! Exactly. A man in love ... You hear, my dear? Here you
have an independent opinion--"

"Can anything be more hopeless," I insisted to the fascinated little
Fyne, "than to pit reason against love. I must confess however that in
this case when I think of that poor girl's sharp chin I wonder if..."

My levity was too much for Mrs Fyne. Still leaning back in her chair
she exclaimed:

"Mr Marlow!"

"As if mysteriously affected by her indignation the absurd Fyne dog
began to b