And all the time he was aware, without admitting it, that, if the thing came into court, Robina’s evidence might be a little damaging to the appearances of wisdom and patience, of austerity and dignity, which he had preserved so well.  He had had an unacknowledged vision of Robina standing in the witness box, very small and shy, with her eyes fluttering while she explained to the gentlemen of the jury that she ran away from her husband because she was afraid of him.  He could hear the question, “Why were you afraid?” and Robina’s answer—­but at that point he always reminded himself that it was as a churchman that he objected to divorce.

For his profession had committed him to a pose.  He had posed for more than thirty years to his parish, to his three wives, to his three children, and to himself, till he had become unconscious of his real thoughts, his real motives, his real likings and dislikings.  So that when he told himself that it would have been better if his third wife had died, he thought he meant that it would have been better for her and for his opinion of her, whereas what he really did mean was that it would have been better for himself.

For if Robina had died he could have married again.  As it was, her infidelity condemned him to a celibacy for which, as she knew, he was utterly unsuited.

Therefore he thought of her as a cruel and unscrupulous woman.  And when he thought of her he became more sorry for himself than ever.

Now, oddly enough, the Grande Polonaise had set Mr. Cartaret thinking of Robina.  It was not that Robina had ever played it.  Robina did not play.  It was not the discords introduced into it by Alice, though Robina had been a thing of discords.  It was that something in him, obscurely but intimately associated with Robina, responded to that sensual and infernal tremor that Alice was wringing out of the Polonaise.  So that, without clearly knowing why it was abominable, Mr. Cartaret said to himself that the tune Alice was playing was an abominable tune and must be stopped at once.

He went into the drawing-room to stop it.

And Essy, in the kitchen, raised her head and dried her eyes on her apron.

“If you must make a noise,” said Mr. Cartaret, “be good enough to make one that is less—­disturbing.”

* * * * *

He stood in the doorway staring at his daughter Alice.

Her excitement had missed by a hairsbreadth the spiritual climax.  It had held itself in for one unspeakable moment, then surged, crowding the courses of her nerves.  Beaten back by the frenzy of the Polonaise, it made a violent return; it rose, quivering, at her eyelids and her mouth; it broke, and, with a shudder of all her body, split itself and fell.

The Vicar stared.  He opened his mouth to say something, and said nothing; finally he went out, muttering.

“Wisdom and patience.  Wisdom and patience.”