"Can you forbid Jim Greatorex? He'll take me like a shot."
"I can put your luggage under lock and key."
He was still stern, though, he was aware that the discussion was descending to sheer foolishness.
"I'll go without it. I can carry a toothbrush and a comb, and Mummy will have heaps of nightgowns."
The Vicar leaned forward and hid his face in his hands before that poignant evocation of Robina.
Gwenda saw that she had gone too far. She had a queer longing to go down on her knees before him and drag his hands from his poor face and ask him to forgive her. She struggled with and overcame the morbid impulse.
The Vicar lifted his face, and for a moment they looked at each other while he measured, visibly, his forces against hers.
She shook her head at him almost tenderly. He was purely pathetic to her now.
"It's no use, Papa. You'd far better give it up. You know you can't do it. You can't stop me. You can't stop Jim Greatorex. You can't even stop Peacock. You don't want another scandal in the parish."
He didn't.