"He may be a better parish priest than a husband; but it is not from want of devotion to his wife; it is from a certain denseness—I don't know what to call it. You don't understand him Gwen."
"I certainly don't."
"I am not sure however that he ought to have married. He is so wrapped up in his parish. Or he ought perhaps to have married someone different to Rachel—a real parish worker. I sometimes wonder if his parish does not stand for more in his estimation than his wife. But for all that he is good."
"I don't call him good."
"Well you don't understand him, that's all. He would do anything in the world for anyone who wants his help."
"Except for his wife."
"That is what I say; he is rather dense, and probably doesn't suppose she needs his help. I remember when I was at Trowsby, he sat up all night with one of the men of his Bible Class who was dying. No nurse could be got."
"Well of course that was nice of him," said Gwen grudgingly, "but I doubt if he would think of sitting up for an hour with his own refractory baby to give Rachel a night's rest."
"I own he is a little blind about those comparatively small matters, but for all that he is a good man and Rachel knew it, and that was why she loved him enough to marry him."
"He is so blind that he is killing her with his neglect," said Gwen warmly. "Mother must not be told, but I shall write to the Bishop."