“What are you trying to say? Why should it matter to me? I didn’t make this lucky find in my garden!”

I felt contrite. It was true, what had I meant to say?

“Forgive me,” I apologized. “I don’t know what came over me—probably the fear that you might be right.”

“I don’t quite see why it should matter to you, either. This creature has no claim on you—nor you on her, for that matter.”

“The fact remains that I rescued her. I suppose this implies some duties. At all events, I can’t bear the idea of letting her molder in this savage state, without lifting a finger.”

“Just because of her anatomy? But if, in every other respect, she’s only a fox, after all?”

“If there is just one chance that she is no longer a fox, have I the right to neglect any means in my power?”

“But in that case there are plenty of educators, specialized institutions that know a lot more about it than you or even Mrs. Bumley.”

It was a curious thing: what I had so much wanted to talk about with Dorothy and her father was precisely this. And now this discussion was irritating me, I found it almost hateful.

“I have already explained to you,” I said testily, “that that is impossible for all sorts of reasons. But one reason will do. I can’t give any proof of her existence. I have no status in respect to her: I am neither her father, brother, cousin or guardian. By what right could I ask for her to be shut away?”

“You might just tell the truth—or almost: that you don’t know where she came from, that you found her roaming near your place in a pitiful state, that you gave her shelter and some care. But now you’re asking the public authorities to take charge of her.”

“It’s too late for that. The whole village believes by now that I have taken in my sister’s daughter.”

“The Board of Control is discreet. They’ll investigate—there’s no doubt about the result of their inquiries. Your objections won’t wash. My father could testify if you wanted him to. Why are you so set on it? You’re assuming an absurd responsibility without any reason.”

This was wisdom itself speaking, yet such a project went deeply against my grain. And I was annoyed with Dorothy for forcing me to oppose it when I was unable to advance any reasons that I could believe in myself.

I had asked Fanny to cook dinner for us. During the meal and after it both Dorothy and I avoided continuing this argument. We talked of one thing and another, of the lives we led, of our childhood memories. She remained oddly elusive on the subject of her stay in London. Being naturally reserved, I did not press her for confidences. Moreover, I feared that my insistence, apart from being rude, might only make her withdraw into her shell. Whereas her trustfulness filled my heart with gentle warmth. And hers too, it seemed. We remained chatting by the fireside till deep into the night.

At last I led her to her room and went into mine. Sylva was sleeping, rolled up in a ball, under the counterpane below the bed, as usual. She moaned a little when I put on the light, but without waking up. It seemed to me that, with Dorothy under my roof, it would have been bad form to share a room with Sylva, even in all propriety. I went to lie down in the room next door.

I found it hard to get to sleep. My feelings were mixed up and contradictory. Why shouldn’t we have more delightful evenings like this one? Why didn’t I marry Dorothy? Love? We were both past thirty; love is not indispensable for a happy union. And there would be two of us instead of one to bring up Sylva. She would be our foster child. But this idea struck against some obstacle that I could not manage to locate. As if I had sensed that the two women could never bear each other, get on with each other. That, sooner or later, I would certainly be forced to sacrifice one to the other. And that it would necessarily be Sylva. That was something I could not make up my mind to. Was I, then, going to sacrifice the prospect of a future filled with mellow, quiet happiness for the sake of this silly vixen? I had to admit that I would be acting like a fool. Come on, I told myself, stop driveling! Don’t think about it any more and go to sleep. But my thoughts continued their endless merry-go-round. I only dozed off at the first light of dawn.

I don’t know what Dorothy had thought about during the night, but in the morning she was more charming than ever, and in the kindliest disposition toward Sylva.

“Let me take her up her breakfast,” she begged me. “We have got to make friends.”

Together we fried some eggs and bacon and I walked upstairs behind her, at a distance but not too far away. I was not very sure of Sylva’s mood when, despite the appetizing smell of breakfast, she would see a woman instead of me.

I did not have to step in, but it was not a success. When Sylva saw Dorothy with the tray, she began to growl, and shouted: “No!” She wrenched the tray out of Dorothy’s hands and sent it flying, whereupon she picked up from the floor whatever she could of the eggs and bacon and went off to devour them under the bed, like a messy little animal.

“I am so sorry!” said Dorothy, contritely.

She helped me scrub the dirty floor. I was very annoyed, but with whom? Sylva or Dorothy? I watched the latter cleaning up; she really had a natural, simple grace. Would Sylva whenever crossed always fall back into her primitive savagery? Wasn’t I inviting an endless series of troubles if I persisted in keeping her?

Dorothy was mopping and I was looking at her profile, slightly banal but full of gentle sweetness under the very fair hair coiled in intertwining plaits. And I thought of my nocturnal reveries and told myself again that I would be a fool if I didn’t marry her.

When everything was clean she stood up and said, “You won’t punish her, will you?”

I protested, “If she were a child she’d be punished. You can’t overlook such bad behavior. She’d only start again.”

Dorothy was insistent. “If she gets punished on account of me she’ll bear a grudge against me for ages.”

I finally had to promise. Sylva stayed on under her bed although she must certainly have finished the crumbs of her meal. It was obvious that she was sulking.

“Let’s leave her,” said Dorothy.

We went down to the study and sat at the fireside. After a while I said, “Maybe you’re right. Perhaps I should hand her over to an institution.”

“There’s no hurry,” said Dorothy (which surprised me a little) .

She was smiling at me with trustful affection.

“I’m wondering whether the passage of time…” I began.

She interrupted me. “Wait and see. Mind you, in any case…”

She seemed uncertain whether to go on. I said, “Well?” and she continued:

“In any case—whatever progress she makes—to whom could you show her afterwards? You’ll have taken a lot of trouble for nothing.”

“What do you mean: to whom?”

“Well, I mean, she’s not one of our sort.”

I suppose my eyes must have expressed my blank incomprehension.

“I mean you’ll only be able to present her as a freak,” she went on, a little crossly. “Not as a relative, or even a friend.”

“Why ever not?” I was amazed.

“Well, it would shock people.”

“For heaven’s sake, do explain!” I cried impatiently.

“She has a pretty skin, but it’s amber-colored. Her eyes are fine, but black as jet. Her eyelids are almond-shaped, and her cheeks like apricots…”

“Are you composing a poem or a still life?”

“In a word, she is an Asiatic, my boy. I suppose foxes must have come originally from Asia. She looks as if she were born in India or Annam.”

“With red hair?”

She pursed her lips ironically, and said, “Some misalliance, perhaps…”

I was rather taken aback. I had thought myself that Sylva had a vaguely exotic look, but not to that extent… If this were so, there would indeed be some rebuffs coming to me on the day I tried to introduce a “native” among the gentry. I wanted to get this straight at once. “Let’s go and see her,” I said.