Fanny Brocklebank came to him the next morning in the library, where
he had hidden himself. She was agitated.
"Put that book down," she said. "I want to talk to you."
Straker obeyed.
"Jimmy--I'm fond of Philippa. I am, really."
"Well--what's up?"
"Philippa's making a fool of herself and she doesn't know it."
"Trust Philippa!"
"To know it?"
"To make a fool of anybody on earth--except herself."
"This is different. It's Larry Furnival."
"It is. And did you ever see such a spectacle of folly?"
"He doesn't understand her. That's where the folly comes in."
"He's not alone in it."
But Fanny was past the consolations of his cynicism. Her face, not
formed for gravity, was grave.
"He's got an idea in his head. An awful one. I'm convinced he thinks
she isn't proper."
"Oh, I say!"
"Well, really--considering that he doesn't know her--I can't
altogether blame him. I told her so straight out."
"What did she say?"
"She said how funny it will be when he finds out how proper she is."
"So it will, won't it?"
Fanny considered the point.
"It's not half as funny as she thinks it. And, funniness and all,
she didn't like it."
"You can hardly expect her to," said Straker.
"Of course," said Fanny, musing, "there's a sort of innocence about
him, or else he couldn't think it."
Straker admitted that, as far as Philippa went, that might be said
of him.
"That's why I hate somehow to see him made a fool of. It doesn't
seem fair play, you know. It's taking advantage of his innocence."
Straker _had_ to laugh, for really, Furny's innocence!
"He always was," Fanny meditated aloud, "a fool about women."
"Oh, well, then," said Straker cheerfully. "She can't make him----"
"She can. She does. She draws out all the folly in him. I'm fond of
Philippa----"
That meant that Fanny was blaming Philippa as much as she could
blame anybody. Immorality she understood, and could excuse; for
immorality there was always some provocation; what she couldn't
stand was the unfairness of Philippa's proceeding, the inequality in
the game.
"I'm very fond of her, but--she's bad for him, Jimmy. She's worse,
far worse, than Nora, poor dear."
"I shouldn't worry about him if I were you."
"I do worry. You see, you can't help liking him. There's something
about Furny--I don't know what it is, unless it's the turn of his
nose----"
"Do you think Philippa likes him? Do you think she's at all taken
with the turn of his nose?"
"If she only would be! Not that he means to marry her. That's the
one point where he's firm. That's where he's awful. Why, oh, why did
I ever ask them? I thought he was safe with Nora."
"Did you?"
"Something must be done," she cried, "to stop it."
"Who's to do it?"
"You or I. Or Will. Anybody!"
"Look here, Fanny, let's get it quite clear. What are you worrying
about? Are you saving Philippa from Furnival, or Furnival from
Philippa?"
"Philippa," Fanny moaned, "doesn't want saving. She can take care of
herself."
"I see. You are fond of Philippa, but your sympathies are with
Furny?"
"Well he can _feel_, and Philippa----"
She left it there for him, as her way was.
"Precisely. Then why worry about Philippa?"
"Because it's really awful, and it's in my house that it'll happen."
"How long are they staying?"
"Lord knows how long."
"Poor Fanny. You can't get them to go, can you?"
"I've thought of things. I've told Will he must have an illness."
"And will he?"
"Not he. He says, as I asked them, I ought to have the illness. But
if I did she'd stay and nurse me. Besides, if we ousted the whole
lot to-morrow, _they'll_ meet again. He'll see to that; and so will
Philippa."
There was a long pause.
"I want _you_ to do it. I want you to tell her."
"Good Lord, what am I to tell her?"
"Tell her it isn't nice; tell her it isn't worth while; tell her
Furny isn't fair game; tell her anything you can think of that'll
stop her."
"I don't see myself----"
"I do. She won't listen to anybody but you."
"Why me?"
"She respects you."
"I doubt it. Why should she?"
"Because you've never made yourself a spectacle of folly. You've
never told her you're in love with her."
"But I'm not," said poor Straker.
"She doesn't know that. And if she did she'd respect you all the
more."
"Dear Fanny, I'd do a great deal for you, but I can't do that. I
can't, really. It wouldn't be a bit of good."
"You could speak," Fanny said, "to Furny."
"I couldn't."
"Why _not_?" she cried, in desperation.
"Because, if I did, I should have to assume things--things that you
cannot decently assume. I can't speak to him. Not, that is, unless
he speaks to me."