He put the thought of her from him.
* * * * *
After tea the Vicar took him into his study. If Rowcliffe had a moment to spare, he would like, he said, to talk to him.
Rowcliffe looked at his watch. The idea of being talked to frightened him.
The Vicar observed his nervousness.
"It's about my daughter Alice," he said.
And it was.
The Vicar wanted him to know and he had brought him into his study in order to tell him that Alice had completely recovered. He went into it. The girl was fit. She was happy. She ate well. She slept well (he had kept her under very careful supervision) and she could walk for miles. She was, in fact, leading the healthy natural life he had hoped she would lead when he brought her into a more bracing climate.
Rowcliffe expressed his wonder. It was, he said, very wonderful.
But the Vicar would not admit that it was wonderful at all. It was exactly what he had expected. He had never thought for a moment that there was anything seriously wrong with Alice—anything indeed in the least the matter with her.