“What on earth would be the use of that?” said Priscilla.
“But, of course, I’ll marry Barnabas with pleasure,” said Miss Rutherford, “if it’s really necessary and Lady Isabel doesn’t object.”
“I won’t be separated from Barnabas,” said Lady Isabel, “and I’m sure he’ll never agree to leave me.”
“All the same you’ll have to,” said Priscilla, “both of you. We can’t pretend you’re not married if you’re going about together on Inishbawn.”
“But I don’t want to pretend I’m not married. I’m proud of what we’ve done.”
“You’ll sacrifice the respect and affection of Aunt Juliet,” said Priscilla, “the moment it comes out that you’re married. As long as she thinks you’re out on your own defying the absurd conventions by which women are made into what she calls ‘bedizened dolls for the amusement of the brutalised male sex,’ she’ll be all on your side. But once she thinks you’ve given up your economic independence she’ll simply turn round and help Lady Torrington to hunt you down.”
Mr. Pennefather emerged from the tent. He wore a black suit of clothes of strictly clerical cut and a collar which buttoned at the back of his neck. Except that he was barefooted and had not brushed his hair he would have been fit to attend a Church Conference. His self-respect was restored by his attire. He walked over to Frank, who was dripping on a stone, and handed him a visiting card. Frank read it.
“Reverend Barnabas Pennefather—St. Agatha’s Clergy House—Grosvenor Street, W.”
“I am the senior curate,” he said. “The staff consists of five priests besides the vicar.”
“They want to take you away from me,” said Lady Isabel. “But you won’t go, say you won’t, Barnabas.”