"That is the way you spoil all your coats, Augustin," said his wife looking at him from behind. "I assure you, my dear, that boy is not well. Poor fellow, all alone at college with nobody to look after him—"
"We have all had to go through that. I do not think it hurts him a bit," said the vicar, slowly removing his hands from his pockets in deference to his wife's suggestion.
"Then what is it, I would like to know? There is certainly something the matter. Now I ask you whether he looks like himself?"
"Perhaps he does look a little tired."
"Tired! There is something on his mind, Augustin. I am positively certain there is something on his mind. Why won't you tell me?"
"My dear—" began the vicar, and then stopped short. He was a very truthful man, and as he knew very well what was the matter with John he was embarrassed to find an answer. "My dear," he repeated, "I do not think he is ill."
"Then I am right," retorted Mrs. Ambrose, triumphantly. "It is just as I thought, there is something on his mind. Don't deny it, Augustin; there is something on his mind."
Mr. Ambrose was silent; he glared fiercely at the window panes.
"Why don't you tell me?" insisted his better half. "I am quite sure you know all about it. Augustin, do you know, or do you not?"
Thus directly questioned the vicar turned sharply round, sweeping the window with his coat tails.