"I have become so sick of this chapel," the Vicar said to his wife that night, "that I wish the subject might never be mentioned again in the house."
"You can't be more sick of it than I am," said his wife.
"What I mean is, that I'm sick of it as a subject of conversation. There it is, and let us make the best of it, as Quickenham says."
"You can't expect anything like sympathy from Richard, you know."
"I don't want any sympathy. I want simply silence. If you'll only make up your mind to take it for granted, and to put up with it—as you had to do with the frost when the shrubs were killed, or with anything that is disagreeable but unavoidable, the feeling of unhappiness about it would die away at once. One does not grieve at the inevitable."
"But one must be quite sure that it is inevitable."
"There it stands, and nothing that we can do can stop it."
"Charlotte says that she is sure Richard has got something in his head. Though he will not sympathise, he will think and contrive and fight."
"And half ruin us by his fighting," said the husband. "He fancies the land may be common land, and not private property."
"Then of course the chapel has no right to be there."