Francis had learned patience in dealing with his parishioners, who were incapable of a direct statement. Mrs. Lipsett had no intention of being mysterious. It only showed that she could not bring herself to the point of open discussion of her affairs with a stranger. She had flung a certain amount of anger into her letter, all the anger she was capable of feeling, and she was not equal to the task of whipping it up again now that she was in the presence of the man to whom she had written in her first desire to injure Frederic. She made an effort and went on:
“I can’t have it in the house. I can’t lose my lodgers. It would frighten the lodgers.”
“What would?”
Mrs. Lipsett looked desperate.
“Don’t you know?”
“No, I don’t,” replied Francis, rather petulantly.
Mrs. Lipsett had risen to her feet. Now she sank back again into her chair and began to cry. Francis preferred that to her incoherence.
“My good woman,” he said. “You seem to be in some trouble. If I can give you any consolation . . .”
“I am in trouble,” moaned Mrs. Lipsett. “I’m always in trouble. I’ve never been out of trouble since I was born. Some people are like that you know.”
These reflections cheered her up perceptibly, and she asked Francis if he would mind if she began to cook the first floor’s tea.