ery much grieved. I should have liked
him to have been distinguished--or at any rate to remain in the social
sphere where we could have had common interests, acquaintances, thoughts.
Don't think that I am estranged from him. But the precise truth is that
I do not know him. I was most painfully affected when he was here by the
difficulty of finding a single topic we could discuss together."

While Mrs. Fyne was talking of her brother I let my thoughts wander out
of the room to little Fyne who by leaving me alone with his wife had, so
to speak, entrusted his domestic peace to my honour.

"Well, then, Mrs. Fyne, does it not strike you that it would be
reasonable under the circumstances to let your brother take care of
himself?"

"And suppose I have grounds to think that he can't take care of himself
in a given instance." She hesitated in a funny, bashful manner which
roused my interest. Then:

"Sailors I believe are very susceptible," she added with forced
assurance.

I burst into a laugh which only increased the coldness of her observing
stare.

"They are. Immensely! Hopelessly! My dear Mrs. Fyne, you had better
give it up! It only makes your husband miserable."

"And I am quite miserable too. It is really our first difference . . . "

"Regarding Miss de Barral?" I asked.

"Regarding everything. It's really intolerable that this girl should be
the occasion. I think he really ought to give way."

She turned her chair round a little and picking up the book I had been
reading in the morning began to turn the leaves absently.

Her eyes being off me, I felt I could allow myself to leave the room. Its
atmosphere had become hopeless for little Fyne's domestic peace. You may
smile. But to the solemn all things are solemn. I had enough sagacity
to understand that.

I slipped out into the porch. The dog was slumbering at Fyne's feet. The
muscular little man leaning on his elbow and gazing over the fields
presented a forlorn figure. He turned his head quickly, but seeing I was
alone, relapsed into his moody contemplation of the green landscape.

I said loudly and distinctly: "I've come out to smoke a cigarette," and
sat down near him on the little bench. Then lowering my voice:
"Tolerance is an extremely difficult virtue," I said. "More difficult
for some than heroism. More difficult than compassion."

I avoided looking at him. I knew well enough that he would not like this
opening. General i