He knew perfectly well she was going to tell him of her engagement to young Rowcliffe; and though he had been prepared for the news any time for the last three months he had to pull himself together to receive it.  He would have to pretend that he was pleased about it when he wasn’t pleased at all.  He was, in fact, intensely sorry for himself.  It had dawned on him that, with Alice left a permanent invalid on his hands, he couldn’t really afford to part with Gwenda.  She might be terrible in the house, but in her way—­a way he didn’t altogether approve of—­she was useful in the parish.  She would cover more of it in an afternoon than Mary could in a month of Sundays.

But, though the idea of Gwenda’s marrying was disagreeable to him for so many reasons, he was not going to forbid it absolutely.  He was only going to insist that she should wait.  It was only reasonable and decent that she should wait until Alice got either better or bad enough to be put under restraint.

The Vicar’s pity for himself reached its climax when he considered that awful alternative.  He had been considering it ever since Rowcliffe had spoken to him about Alice.

It was just like Gwenda to go and get engaged at such a moment, when he was beside himself.

But he smoothed his face into a smile when she appeared.

“Well, what is it?  What is this great thing you’ve come to tell me?”

It struck him that for the first time in her life Gwenda looked embarrassed; as well she might be.

“Oh—­it isn’t very great, Papa.  It’s only that I’m going away.”

“Going—­away?”

“I don’t mean out of the country.  Only to London.”

“Ha!  Going to London—­” He rolled it ruminatingly on his tongue.

“Well, if that’s all you’ve come to say, it’s very simple.  You can’t go.”

He bent his knees with the little self-liberating gesture that he had when he put his foot down.

“But,” said Gwenda, “I’m going.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“And why is this the first time I’ve heard of it?”

“Because I want to go without any bother, since I’m going to go.”

“Oh—­consideration for me, I suppose?”

“For both of us.  I don’t want you to worry.”

“That’s why you’ve chosen a time when I’m worried out of my wits already.”

“I know, Papa.  That’s why I’m going.”

He was arrested both by the astounding statement and by something unusually placable in her tone.  He stared at her as his way was.

Then, suddenly, he had a light on it.

“Gwenda, there must be something behind all this.  You’d better tell me straight out what’s happened.”

“Nothing has happened.”

“You know what I mean.  We’ve spoken about this before.  Is there anything between you and young Rowcliffe.”

“Nothing.  Nothing whatever of the sort you mean.”