thinking how horrible it must have been for Philippa.
Then he reflected that it must have been pretty horrible for Furny,
too--so unexpected. At that point he remembered that for Philippa it
had not been altogether unexpected; Fanny had warned her of this
very thing.

"How--did she--take it?" he inquired tentatively.

"My dear fellow, she sat there--where you are now--and lammed into
me. She made me feel as if I were a cad and a beast and a
ruffian--as if I wanted k-kick-kicking. She said she wouldn't have
seen that I existed if it hadn't been for Fanny Brocklebank--I was
her friend's guest--and when I tried to defend myself she turned
and talked to me about things, Straker, till I blushed. I'm
b-blushing now."

He was.

"And, of course, after that, I've got to go."

"Was that all?" said Straker.

"No, it wasn't. I can't tell you the _other_ things she said."

For a moment Furny's eyes took on a marvelous solemnity, as if they
were holding for a moment some sort of holy, supersensuous vision.

Then suddenly they grew reminiscent.

"How could I tell, Straker, how could I possibly tell?"

And Straker, remembering the dance that Philippa had led him, and
her appearance, and the things, the uncommonly queer things she had
done to him with her eyes, wondered how Furny _could_ have told, how
he could have avoided drawing the inferences, the uncommonly queer
inferences, he drew. He'd have drawn them himself if he had not
known Philippa so well.

"What I want to know," said Furnival, "is what she did it for?"

He rose, straightening himself.

"Anyhow, I've got to go."

"Did she say so?"

"No, she didn't. She said it wasn't necessary. _That_ was innocent,
Straker, if you like."

"Oh, jolly innocent," said Straker.

"But I'm going all the same. I'm going before breakfast, by the
seven-fifty train."

And he went. Straker saw him off.

IX

That was far and away the most disconcerting thing that had happened
at Amberley within Straker's recollection.

It must have been very disagreeable for Philippa.

When, five days ago, he had wondered if he would ever live to see
Philippa disconcerted, he had not contemplated anything like this.
Neither, he was inclined to think, had Philippa in the beginning.
She could have had no idea what she was letting herself in for. That
she had let herself in was, to Straker's mind, the awful part of it.

As he walked home from the station he called up all his cleverness,