He had forgotten Essy.

And at the sight of her his nobility went from him and only his heaviness remained.

It didn’t matter that they shouted for him to sing again, that they stamped and bellowed, and that he did sing, again and again, taking the roof off at the last with “John Peel.”

Nothing mattered.  Nothing mattered.  Nothing could matter now.

And then something bigger than his heart, bigger than his voice, something immense and brutal and defiant, asserted itself and said that Come to that Essy didn’t matter.  She had put herself in his way.  And Maggie had been before and after her.  And Maggie didn’t matter either.

* * * * *

For the magical smell had wrapped itself round Alice Cartaret, and her dove-gray gown and dove-gray eyes, and round the thought of her.  It twined and tangled her in the subtle mesh.  She was held and embalmed in it forever.

XXVI

It was Wednesday, the day after the concert.

Mr. Cartaret was standing before the fire in his study.  He had just rung the bell and now he waited in an attitude of wisdom and of patience.  It was only ten o’clock in the morning and wisdom and patience should not be required of any man at such an hour.  But the Vicar had a disagreeable duty to perform.

Whenever the Vicar had a disagreeable duty to perform he performed it as early as possible in the morning, so that none of its disagreeableness was lost.  The whole day was poisoned by it.

He waited a little longer.  And as he waited his patience began to suffer imperceptibly, though his wisdom remained intact.

He rang again.  The bell sounded through the quiet house, angry and terrifying.

In another moment Essy came in.  She had on a clean apron.

She stood by the roll-top desk.  It offered her a certain cover and support.  Her brown eyes, liquid and gentle, gazed at him.  But for all her gentleness there was a touch of defiance in her bearing.

“Did you not hear me ring?” said the Vicar.

“Naw, sir.”

Nothing more clear and pure than the candor of Essy’s eyes.  They disconcerted him.

“I have nothing to say to you, Essy.  You know why I sent for you.”

“Naw, sir.”  She thought it was a question.

He underlined it.

“You—­know—­why.”

“Naw.  I doan’ knaw, sir.”

“Then, if you don’t know, you must find out.  You will go down to the surgery this afternoon and see Dr. Rowcliffe, and he will report on your case.”

She started and the red blood rose in her face.

“I s’all not goa and see him, Mr. Cartaret.”

She was very quiet.

“Very good.  Then I shall pay you a month’s wages and you will go on Saturday.”

It was then that her mouth trembled so that her eyes shone large through her tears.