God knew he had been willing enough to solve it that way.
But here they were, flung together, thrust toward each other when they
should have torn themselves apart; tied, both of them, to a place they
could not leave. Week in, week out, he would be obliged to see her
whether he would or no. And when her tired face rebuked his senses,
she drew him by her tenderness; she held him by her goodness. There
was only one thing for him to do--to clear out. It was his plain and
simple duty. If it hadn't been for Alice and for that old man he
would have done it. But, because of them, it was his still plainer
and simpler duty to stay where he was, to stick to her and see her
through.
He couldn't help it if his problem was taken out of his hands.
They started. They looked at each other and smiled their strained and
tragic smile.
In the inner room the Vicar was calling for Gwenda.
It was prayer time, he said.
* * * * *
Rowcliffe had to drive Alice back that night to Upthorne.
"Well," he said, as they left the Vicarage behind them, "you see he
isn't going to die."
"No," said Alice. "But he's out of his mind. I haven't killed him.
I've done worse. I've driven him mad."
And she stuck to it. She couldn't afford to part with her fear--yet.
Rowcliffe was distressed at the failure of his experiment. He told
Greatorex that there was nothing to be done but to wait patiently till
June.
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