Rowcliffe was silent. But he looked at the Vicar, and the Vicar did not even pretend not to understand his look.
"I know," he said, "the very serious view you took of her. But I think, my dear fellow, when you've seen her you'll admit that you were mistaken."
Rowcliffe said there was nothing he desired more than to have been mistaken, but he was afraid he couldn't admit it. Miss Cartaret's state, when he last saw her, had been distinctly serious.
"You will perhaps admit that whatever danger there may have been then is over?"
"I haven't seen her yet," said Rowcliffe. "But"—he looked at him—"I told you the thing was curable."
"That's my point. What is there—what can there have been to cure her?"
Rowcliffe ignored the Vicar's point.
"Can you date it—this recovery?"
"I date it," said the Vicar, "from the time her sister left. She seemed to pull herself together after that."
Rowcliffe said nothing. He was reviewing all his knowledge of the case. He considered Ally's disastrous infatuation for himself. In the light of his knowledge her recovery was not only wonderful, it was incomprehensible. So incomprehensible that he was inclined to suspect her father of lying for some reason of his own. Family pride, no doubt. He had known instances.