"You will perhaps admit that whatever danger there may have been then
is over?"
"I haven't seen her yet," said Rowcliffe. "But"--he looked at him--"I
told you the thing was curable."
"That's my point. What is there--what can there have been to cure
her?"
Rowcliffe ignored the Vicar's point.
"Can you date it--this recovery?"
"I date it," said the Vicar, "from the time her sister left. She
seemed to pull herself together after that."
Rowcliffe said nothing. He was reviewing all his knowledge of the
case. He considered Ally's disastrous infatuation for himself. In the
light of his knowledge her recovery was not only wonderful, it was
incomprehensible. So incomprehensible that he was inclined to suspect
her father of lying for some reason of his own. Family pride, no
doubt. He had known instances.
The Vicar went on. He gave himself a long innings. "But that does not
account for it altogether, though it may have started it. I really put
it down to other things--the pure air--the quiet life--the absence of
excitement--the regular _work_ that _takes_ her _out_ of herself----"
Here the Vicar fell into that solemn rhythm that marked the periods of
his sermons.
He perorated. "The _simple_ following _out_ of _my_ prescription. You
will remember" (he became suddenly cheery and conversational) "that it
_was_ mine."
"It certainly wasn't mine," said Rowcliffe.
He saw it all. _That_ was why the Vicar was so affable.
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