“It’s so difficult to get women to take broad views,” complained the Vicar, turning to Anne, “it requires the masculine mind, free from prejudice and indifferent to common opinion, to see the wider outlook.”
Anne laid her hand on his wife’s arm.
“Dear Mrs. Carfax, do let her finish her training,” she urged. “The child acknowledges her foolishness. I quite agree that she ought not to be alone, and before you came in, I was suggesting a plan to your husband.
“Let her go to my brother and his wife. They lost their little girl some years ago, and Alice has always longed for a daughter. She’s such a nice kind little woman, and she would treat Sylvia as her own child. I spoke to her of the possibility of this, before I left London, and she was delighted with the idea.”
“It would be a splendid thing for her, Mary, if it can be arranged. It’s so like Miss Page to have thought of such a plan.”
Mrs. Carfax hesitated.
“We must think about it. I wouldn’t give my consent for her to go anywhere else. But if it’s a case of your relations, dear, it’s different. I should feel safe and happy about her, of course. We must talk about it, George.”
Anne leant back against her sofa cushions with a satisfied expression.
When her visitors rose to go, she followed them to the door.
While his wife was being helped into her goloshes by Burks, outside in the hall, the Vicar lingered a moment to hold her hand in a tight grasp.