It was what Gwenda's children might have had, too. She felt that she
had made him think of Gwenda.
Then Essy came and took the baby from her.
"'E's too 'eavy fer yo', Miss," she said. She laughed as she took him;
she gazed at him with pride and affection unabashed. His one fault,
for Essy, was that, though he had got Greatorex's eyes, he had not got
Greatorex's hair.
Mary and Rowcliffe went back together.
"You're coming in to tea, aren't you?" she said.
"Rather." He had got into the habit again of looking in at the
Vicarage for tea every Wednesday. They were having tea in the orchard
now. And in June the Vicarage orchard was a pleasanter place than the
surgery.
It was in fact a very pleasant place. Pleasanter than the gray and
amber drawing-room.
When Rowcliffe came to think of it, he owed the Cartarets many
pleasant things. So he had formed another habit of asking them back
to tea in his orchard. He had had no idea what a pleasant place his
orchard could be too.
Now, though Rowcliffe nearly always had tea alone with Mary at the
Vicarage, Mary never came to tea at Rowcliffe's house alone. She
always brought Alice with her. And Rowcliffe found that a nuisance.
For one thing, Alice had the air of being dragged there against
her will, so completely had she recovered from him. For another, he
couldn't talk to Mary quite so well. He didn't know that he wanted to
talk to Mary. He didn't know that he particularly wanted to be alone
with her, but somehow Alice's being there made him want it.
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