eworthy thing
your sincere conduct,--if it didn't at times resemble brutality so much.
But I don't think it was compunction. That sentiment is rare in women
. . . "

"Is it?" I interrupted indignantly.

"You know more women than I do," retorted the unabashed Marlow. "You
make it your business to know them--don't you? You go about a lot
amongst all sorts of people. You are a tolerably honest observer. Well,
just try to remember how many instances of compunction you have seen. I
am ready to take your bare word for it. Compunction! Have you ever seen
as much as its shadow? Have you ever? Just a shadow--a passing shadow!
I tell you it is so rare that you may call it non-existent. They are too
passionate. Too pedantic. Too courageous with themselves--perhaps. No
I don't think for a moment that Mrs. Fyne felt the slightest compunction
at her treatment of her sea-going brother. What _he_ thought of it who
can tell? It is possible that he wondered why he had been so insistently
urged to come. It is possible that he wondered bitterly--or
contemptuously--or humbly. And it may be that he was only surprised and
bored. Had he been as sincere in his conduct as his only sister he would
have probably taken himself off at the end of the second day. But
perhaps he was afraid of appearing brutal. I am not far removed from the
conviction that between the sincerities of his sister and of his dear
nieces, Captain Anthony of the _Ferndale_ must have had his loneliness
brought home to his bosom for the first time of his life, at an age,
thirty-five or thereabouts, when one is mature enough to feel the pang of
such a discovery. Angry or simply sad but certainly disillusioned he
wanders about and meets the girl one afternoon and under the sway of a
strong feeling forgets his shyness. This is no supposition. It is a
fact. There was such a meeting in which the shyness must have perished
before we don't know what encouragement, or in the community of mood made
apparent by some casual word. You remember that Mrs. Fyne saw them one
afternoon coming back to the cottage together. Don't you think that I
have hit on the psychology of the situation? . . . "

"Doubtless . . . " I began to ponder.

"I was very certain of my conclusions at the time," Marlow went on
impatiently. "But don't think for a moment that Mrs. Fyne in her new
attitude and toying thoughtfully with a teaspoon was about to surrender.
She murmured:

"It'