nt young man ran off, I found myself alone with Flora. It
was all I could do to hold her in the hall while I called to the servants
to come and shut the door."

As is my habit, or my weakness, or my gift, I don't know which, I
visualized the story for myself. I really can't help it. And the vision
of Mrs. Fyne dressed for a rather special afternoon function, engaged in
wrestling with a wild-eyed, white-faced girl had a certain dramatic
fascination.

"Really!" I murmured.

"Oh! There's no doubt that she struggled," said Mrs. Fyne. She
compressed her lips for a moment and then added: "As to her being a
comedian that's another question."

Mrs. Fyne had returned to her attitude of folded arms. I saw before me
the daughter of the refined poet accepting life whole with its
unavoidable conditions of which one of the first is the instinct of self-
preservation and the egoism of every living creature. "The fact remains
nevertheless that you--yourself--have, in your own words, pulled her in,"
I insisted in a jocular tone, with a serious intention.

"What was one to do," exclaimed Mrs. Fyne with almost comic exasperation.
"Are you reproaching me with being too impulsive?"

And she went on telling me that she was not that in the least. One of
the recommendations she always insisted on (to the girl-friends, I
imagine) was to be on guard against impulse. Always! But I had not been
there to see the face of Flora at the time. If I had it would be
haunting me to this day. Nobody unless made of iron would have allowed a
human being with a face like that to rush out alone into the streets.

"And doesn't it haunt you, Mrs. Fyne?" I asked.

"No, not now," she said implacably. "Perhaps if I had let her go it
might have done . . . Don't conclude, though, that I think she was
playing a comedy then, because after struggling at first she ended by
remaining. She gave up very suddenly. She collapsed in our arms, mine
and the maid's who came running up in response to my calls, and . . . "

"And the door was then shut," I completed the phrase in my own way.

"Yes, the door was shut," Mrs. Fyne lowered and raised her head slowly.

I did not ask her for details. Of one thing I am certain, and that is
that Mrs. Fyne did not go out to the musical function that afternoon. She
was no doubt considerably annoyed at missing the privilege of hearing
privately an interesting young pianist (a girl) who, since, had become
one of the