He had settled more or less into his state of gentleness and submission, broken from time to time by fits of violent irritation and relieved by pride, pride in his feats of independence, his comings and goings, his washing, his dressing and undressing of himself.  Sometimes this pride was stubborn and insistent; sometimes it was sweet and joyous as a child’s.  His mouth, relaxed forever by his stroke, had acquired a smile of piteous and appealing innocence.  It smiled upon the just and upon the unjust.  It smiled even on Greatorex, whom socially he disapproved of (he took care to let it be known that he disapproved of Greatorex socially), though he tolerated him.

He tolerated all persons except one.  And that one was the ritualistic curate, Mr. Grierson.

He had every reason for not tolerating him.  Not only was Mr. Grierson a ritualist, which was only less abominable than being a non-conformist, but he had been foisted on him without his knowledge or will.  The Vicar had simply waked up one day out of his confused twilight to a state of fearful lucidity and found the young man there.  Worse than all it was through the third Mrs. Cartaret that he had got there.

For the Vicar of Greffington had applied to the Additional Curates Aid Society for a grant on behalf of his afflicted brother, the Vicar of Garthdale, and he had applied in vain.  There was a prejudice against the Vicar of Garthdale.  But the Vicar of Greffington did not relax his efforts.  He applied to young Mrs. Rowcliffe, and young Mrs. Rowcliffe applied to her step-mother, and not in vain.  Robina, answering by return of post, offered to pay half the curate’s salary.  Rowcliffe made himself responsible for the other half.

Robina, in her compact little house in St. John’s Wood, had become the prey of remorse.  Her conscience had begun to bother her by suggesting that she ought to go back to her husband now that he was helpless and utterly inoffensive.  She ought not to leave him on poor Gwenda’s hands.  She ought, at any rate, to take her turn.

But Robina couldn’t face it.  She couldn’t leave her compact little house and go back to her husband.  She couldn’t even take her turn.  Flesh and blood shrank from the awful sacrifice.  It would be a living death.  Your conscience has no business to send you to a living death.

Robina’s heart ached for poor Gwenda.  She wrote and said so.  She said she knew she was a brute for not going back to Gwenda’s father.  She would do it if she could, but she simply couldn’t.  She hadn’t got the nerve.

And Robina did more.  She pulled wires and found the curate.  That he was a ritualist was no drawback in Robina’s eyes.  In fact, she declared it was a positive advantage.  Mr. Grierson’s practices would wake them up in Garthdale.  They needed waking.  She had added that Mr. Grierson was well connected, well behaved and extremely good-looking.

Even charity couldn’t subdue the merry devil in Robina.