“Then I am right,” retorted Mrs. Ambrose, triumphantly.  “It is just as I thought, there is something on his mind.  Don’t deny it, Augustin; there is something on his mind.”

Mr. Ambrose was silent; he glared fiercely at the window panes.

“Why don’t you tell me?” insisted his better half.  “I am quite sure you know all about it.  Augustin, do you know, or do you not?”

Thus directly questioned the vicar turned sharply round, sweeping the window with his coat tails.

“My dear,” he said, shortly, “I do know.  Can you not imagine that it may be a matter which John does not care to have mentioned?”

Mrs. Ambrose grew red with annoyance.  She had set her heart on finding out what had disturbed John, and the vicar had apparently made up his mind that she should not succeed.  Such occurrences were very rare between that happy couple.

“I cannot believe he has done anything wrong,” said Mrs. Ambrose.  “Anything which need be concealed from me—­the interest I have always taken—­”

“He has not done anything wrong,” said the vicar impatiently.  “I do wish you would drop the subject—­”

“Then why should it be concealed from me?” objected his wife with admirable logic.  “If it is anything good he need not hide his light under a bushel, I should think.”

“There are plenty of things which are neither bad nor good,” argued the vicar, who felt that if he could draw Mrs. Ambrose into a Socratic discussion he was safe.

“That is a distinct prevarication, Augustin,” said she severely.  “I am surprised at you.”

“Not at all,” retorted the vicar.  “What has occurred to John is not owing to any fault of his.”  In his own mind the good man excused himself by saying that John could not have helped falling in love with Mrs. Goddard.  But his wife turned quickly upon him.

“That does not prevent what has occurred to him, as you call it, from being good, or more likely bad, to judge from his looks.”

“My dear,” said Mr. Ambrose, driven to bay, “I entirely decline to discuss the point.”

“I thought you trusted me, Augustin.”

“So I do—­certainly—­and I always consult you about my own affairs.”

“I think I have as much right to know about John as you have,” retorted his wife, who seemed deeply hurt.

“That is a point then which you ought to settle with John,” said the vicar.  “I cannot betray his confidence, even to you.”

“Oh—­then he has been making confidences to you?”

“How in the world should I know about his affairs unless he told me?”

“One may see a great many things without being told about them, you know,” answered Mrs. Ambrose, assuming a prim expression as she examined a small spot in the tablecloth.  The vicar was walking up and down the room.  Her speech, which was made quite at random, startled him.  She, too, might easily have observed John’s manner when he was with Mrs. Goddard; she might have guessed the secret, and have put her own interpretation on John’s sudden melancholy.