“No,” returned the doctor quickly. “The vicar, whatever qualities he may lack, happens to be a gentleman, and is moreover one of Miss Page’s many friends. Fortunately this woman, Madame Didier, wrote to him, not to Mrs. Carfax, and as the letter to some extent concerned my wife, he brought it to me.”
Fontenelle gently raised his eyebrows, but refrained from comment.
“The vicar,” Dr. Dakin went on with a half smile, “is filled with righteous indignation about what he naturally believes an impudent lie. He has written to his correspondent, threatening pains and penalties if she communicates with his wife, or tries in any way to spread the scandal. He’s a wise man,” he added dryly. “Mrs. Carfax is not the woman to be trusted with the reputation of her dearest friends.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“I didn’t tell him,” continued the doctor, “that I had previously heard the story from my wife, who assures me it is true.”
François’s expression was inscrutable.
“And—pardon me—you, I imagine, regard the matter as, well let us say as an Englishman?”
“If as I suppose I am to understand, you mean that I’m naturally a hypocrite,” returned the doctor rather stiffly, “you are mistaken. Miss Page is the best, the most generous woman I have ever met. Whatever her life may have been, that is the result. The rest doesn’t concern me.”
A sudden light sprang into the other man’s eyes.
“I beg your pardon,” he said simply, in a tone of sincerity.