"Some don't do any work. Some are busy at home. Some have classes in the Sunday-school—or help in other ways with parish doings. Some make their own blouses."
The Vicar heard this in silence and went on studying the problem. He was gradually individualising Burwood folks; and lately he had individualised Magda Royston. The church was free-seated; but the Roystons had their own position, just in front of the pulpit, and he had early noted a fresh girlish face, with its rather unusual mass of reddish hair, and with a bright brisk bearing. Then he observed a change. The bright face grew dull; the spirited pose spiritless. Something was wrong with her, he decided; and he went to call, but failed to find the object of his solicitude.
Two Sundays back his attention had been awakened anew. Talking to his people of life, its claims, its duties, its abuses, he saw that listless face lifted, and a look of interest dawn.
"The child wants a helping hand," he thought. "I must get hold of her." But he had not yet succeeded.
"Osborne," called a cheery voice; and his wife came across the wet lawn—a charming little woman, fresh as a daisy, despite years in a manufacturing town; supremely neat in dress, and supremely happy in look, with smiling eyes and ready laugh. They had been married ten years, and were lovers still, though she was a good twenty-five years his junior.
"You are wanted, dear."
"Generally the case on Monday."
"I know. You ought to be left in peace. But I did not like to suggest another time. Girls are cranky beings."
"You speak of them from personal experience."
"Yes, I do. I was cranky at her age—always ready to be rubbed up the wrong way."