When they reached the Vicarage gate he sheered off the path and held out his hand.
"Oh—aren't you coming in for tea?" she said.
"Thanks. No. It's a little late. I don't think I want any."
He paused. "I've got what I wanted."
He stepped backward, facing her, raising his cap, then he turned and hurried down the hill.
Gwenda walked slowly up the flagged path to the house door. She stood there, thinking.
"He's got what he wanted. He only wanted to see what I was like."
XXIII
Rowcliffe had ten minutes on his hands while they were bringing his trap round from the Red Lion.
He was warming his hands at the surgery fire when he heard voices in the parlor on the other side of the narrow passage. One voice pleaded, the other reserved judgment.