“I’ve never been into Vinehall church and found it empty.”
“Oh, you’re still worrying about Gervase going to Vinehall?”
“I’m not talking about Gervase. I’m talking about people in general. Vinehall church is used for prayer—mine is always empty except on Sundays.”
“Indeed it’s not—I’ve often seen people in it, looking at the old glass, and the carving in the South Aisle.”
“But they don’t pray.”
“Of course not. We English don’t do that sort of thing in public. They may at Vinehall; but you know what I think of Vinehall—it’s un-English.”
“I expect it’s what the whole of England was like before the Reformation.”
“George!” cried Rose—“you must be ill.”
Only a physical cause could account for such mental disintegration. She decided to send for Dr. Mount, who confirmed her diagnosis rather disconcertingly. George’s heart was diseased—had been diseased for some time. His case was the exact contrast of Lady Alard’s—those qualms and stabs and suffocations which for so long both he and his wife had insisted were indigestion, were in reality symptoms of the dread angina.
He must be very careful not to overstrain himself in any way. No, Dr. Mount did not think a parish like Leasan too heavy a burden—but of course a complete rest and holiday would do him good.