That roused him.
"You seem to think no more of Essy's sin than Essy does."
"How do you know what Essy thinks? How do I know? It isn't any business of ours what Essy thinks. It's what we do. I'd rather do what Essy's done, any day, than do mean or cruel things. Wouldn't you?"
The Vicar raised his eyebrows and his shoulders. It was the gesture of a man helpless before the unspeakable.
He took refuge in his pathos.
"I am very tired, Gwenda; and it's ten minutes to ten."
* * * * *
It may have been because the Vicar was tired that his mind wandered somewhat that night during family prayers.
Foremost among the many things that the Vicar's mind refused to consider was the question of the status, of the very existence, of family prayers in his household.
But for Essy, though the Vicar did not know it, it was doubtful whether family prayers would have survived what he called his daughters' godlessness. Mary, to be sure, conformed outwardly. She was not easily irritated, and, as she put it, she did not really mind prayers. But to Alice and Gwendolen prayers were a weariness and an exasperation. Alice would evade them under any pretext. By her father's action in transporting her to Gardale, she considered that she was absolved from her filial allegiance. But Gwendolen was loyal. In the matter of prayers, which—she made it perfectly clear to Alice and Mary—could not possibly annoy them more than they did her, she was going to see Papa through. It would be beastly, she said, not to. They couldn't give him away before Essy.