The Vicar went on. He gave himself a long innings. "But that does not account for it altogether, though it may have started it. I really put it down to other things—the pure air—the quiet life—the absence of excitement—the regular work that takes her out of herself——"
Here the Vicar fell into that solemn rhythm that marked the periods of his sermons.
He perorated. "The simple following out of my prescription. You will remember" (he became suddenly cheery and conversational) "that it was mine."
"It certainly wasn't mine," said Rowcliffe.
He saw it all. That was why the Vicar was so affable. That was why he was so serene.
And he wasn't lying. His state of mind was obviously much too simple.
He was serenely certain of his facts.
* * * * *
By courteous movement of his hand the Vicar condoned Rowcliffe's rudeness, which he attributed to professional pique very natural in the circumstances.
With admirable tact he changed the subject.
"I also wished to consult you about another matter. Nothing" (he again reassured the doctor's nervousness) "to do with my family."