"I know, dear, I know."
"Do you think he'll ever remember?"
"I don't know. I don't think so."
Then they sat together without speaking. She was thinking: "How good he is. Surely I may love him for his goodness?" And he that the old man in there had solved his problem, but that his own had been taken out of his hands.
And he saw no solution.
If the Vicar had gone away and taken Gwenda with him, that would have solved it. God knew he had been willing enough to solve it that way.
But here they were, flung together, thrust toward each other when they should have torn themselves apart; tied, both of them, to a place they could not leave. Week in, week out, he would be obliged to see her whether he would or no. And when her tired face rebuked his senses, she drew him by her tenderness; she held him by her goodness. There was only one thing for him to do—to clear out. It was his plain and simple duty. If it hadn't been for Alice and for that old man he would have done it. But, because of them, it was his still plainer and simpler duty to stay where he was, to stick to her and see her through.
He couldn't help it if his problem was taken out of his hands.
They started. They looked at each other and smiled their strained and tragic smile.
In the inner room the Vicar was calling for Gwenda.