f
cynical pessimism as to say that it was extremely probable.

He explained at length to Mrs. Fyne that de Barral certainly did not take
anyone into his confidence. But the beastly relative had made up his low
mind that it was so. He was selfish and pitiless in his stupidity, but
he had clearly conceived the notion of making a claim on de Barral when
de Barral came out of prison on the strength of having "looked after" (as
he would have himself expressed it) his daughter. He nursed his hopes,
such as they were, in secret, and it is to be supposed kept them even
from his wife.

I could see it very well. That belief accounted for his mysterious air
while he interfered in favour of the girl. He was the only protector she
had. It was as though Flora had been fated to be always surrounded by
treachery and lies stifling every better impulse, every instinctive
aspiration of her soul to trust and to love. It would have been enough
to drive a fine nature into the madness of universal suspicion--into any
sort of madness. I don't know how far a sense of humour will stand by
one. To the foot of the gallows, perhaps. But from my recollection of
Flora de Barral I feared that she hadn't much sense of humour. She had
cried at the desertion of the absurd Fyne dog. That animal was certainly
free from duplicity. He was frank and simple and ridiculous. The
indignation of the girl at his unhypocritical behaviour had been funny
but not humorous.

As you may imagine I was not very anxious to resume the discussion on the
justice, expediency, effectiveness or what not, of Fyne's journey to
London. It isn't that I was unfaithful to little Fyne out in the porch
with the dog. (They kept amazingly quiet there. Could they have gone to
sleep?) What I felt was that either my sagacity or my conscience would
come out damaged from that campaign. And no man will willingly put
himself in the way of moral damage. I did not want a war with Mrs. Fyne.
I much preferred to hear something more of the girl. I said:

"And so she went away with that respectable ruffian."

Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders slightly--"What else could she have done?"
I agreed with her by another hopeless gesture. It isn't so easy for a
girl like Flora de Barral to become a factory hand, a pathetic seamstress
or even a barmaid. She wouldn't have known how to begin. She was the
captive of the meanest conceivable fate. And she wasn't mean enough for
it. It is t