Mary had dressed, for Rowcliffe was coming to dinner.  Such a thing had never been heard of at the Vicarage; but it had come to pass.  And as Mary thought of how she had accomplished it, she wondered what Alice could possibly have meant when she said to her “There are moments when I hate you,” as she hooked her up the back.

For it never could have happened if she had not persuaded the Vicar (and herself as well) that she was asking Rowcliffe on Alice’s account.

The Vicar had come gradually to see that if Alice must be married she had better marry Rowcliffe and have done with it.  He had got used to Rowcliffe and he rather liked him; so he had only held out against the idea for a fortnight or so.  He had even found a certain austere satisfaction in the thought that he, the doctor, who had tried to terrify him about Ally’s insanity, having thrown that bomb into the peaceful Vicarage, should be blown up, as it were, with his own explosion.

The Vicar never doubted that it was Ally that Rowcliffe wanted.  For the idea of his wanting Gwenda was so unpleasant to him that he had dismissed it as preposterous; as for Mary, he had made up his mind that Mary would never dream of marrying and leaving him, and that, if she did, he would put his foot down.

There had been changes in the Vicarage in the last two months.  The shabby gray and amber drawing-room was not all shabbiness and not all gray and amber now.  There were new cretonne covers on the chairs and sofa, and pure white muslin curtains at the windows, and the lamp had a new frilled petticoat.  Every afternoon Mrs. Gale was arrayed in a tight black gown and irreproachable cap and apron.

All day long Mary and Mrs. Gale had worked like galley slaves over the preparations for dinner, and between them they had achieved perfection.  What was more they had produced an effect of achieving it every day, clear soup, mayonnaise salad and cheese straws and all.

And the black coffee made by Mary and served in the orchard afterward was perfection too.

And the impression made on Rowcliffe by the Vicarage was that of a house and a household rehabilitated after a long period of devastation, by the untiring, selfless labor of a woman who was good and sweet.

After they had drunk Mary’s coffee the Vicar strolled away to his study so as to leave Rowcliffe alone with Mary, and Alice strolled away heaven knew where so as to leave Mary alone with Rowcliffe.  And the Vicar said to himself, “Mary is really doing it very well.  Ally ought to be grateful to her.”

But Ally wasn’t a bit grateful.  She said to herself, “I’ve half a mind to tell him; only Gwenda would hate me.”  And she called over her shoulder as she strolled away, “You’d better not stay out too long, you two.  It’s going to rain.”

Morfe High Moor hangs over Garth and a hot and swollen cloud was hanging over Morfe High Moor.  Above the gray ramparts the very east was sultry.  In the orchard under the low plum-trees it was as airless as in a tent.