What is to be noted is that even in London, having had time to take a reflective view, poor Flora was far from being certain as to the true inwardness of her violent dismissal. She felt the humiliation of it with an almost maddened resentment.
“And did you enlighten her on the point?” I ventured to ask.
Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders with a philosophical acceptance of all the necessities which ought not to be. Something had to be said, she murmured. She had told the girl enough to make her come to the right conclusion by herself.
“And she did?”
“Yes. Of course. She isn’t a goose,” retorted Mrs. Fyne tartly.
“Then her education is completed,” I remarked with some bitterness. “Don’t you think she ought to be given a chance?”
Mrs. Fyne understood my meaning.
“Not this one,” she snapped in a quite feminine way. “It’s all very well for you to plead, but I—”
“I do not plead. I simply asked. It seemed natural to ask what you thought.”
“It’s what I feel that matters. And I can’t help my feelings. You may guess,” she added in a softer tone, “that my feelings are mostly concerned with my brother. We were very fond of each other. The difference of our ages was not very great. I suppose you know he is a little younger than I am. He was a sensitive boy. He had the habit of brooding. It is no use concealing from you that neither of us was happy at home. You have heard, no doubt . . . Yes? Well, I was made still more unhappy and hurt—I don’t mind telling you that. He made his way to some distant relations of our mother’s people who I believe were not known to my father at all. I don’t wish to judge their action.”