Fyne's sentiments (as they naturally would be in a man) had more stability.

A good deal of his sympathy survived.
Indeed I heard him murmur "Ghastly nuisance," but I knew it was of the integrity of his domestic accord that he was thinking.

With my eyes on the dog lying curled up in sleep in the middle of the porch I suggested in a subdued impersonal tone: "Yes.

Why not let yourself be persuaded ?" I never saw little Fyne less solemn.

He hissed through his teeth in unexpectedly figurative style that it would take a lot to persuade him to "push under the head of a poor devil of a girl quite sufficiently plucky"-- and snorted.