"Well, really, when you will play hymns as though they were polkas yes, polkas, you must not expect me to refrain from some remark. Another time, please play more suitably. Good evening."
As the vicar passed the front pew, Coast saw him pause.
That damned woman had heard everything then—heard him scolded like a schoolboy by that fool Slater. It was too much.
"Well, well, Mrs. Robson"—Coast could guess just how the Vicar rubbed his bloodless little hands—"I think we have some cause for rejoicing this year—hah? A most trying business, satisfactorily over."
"Yes," said Mary. Her weary voice sounded remote and toneless in the shadowed church.
"I think we may congratulate you and Mr. Robson—very disinterested behaviour, very. Quite right that you should have stood out for the sake of the small farmers—quite. I was talking to Mrs. Armstrong to-day. She said what a help you and your husband had been to Albert. Very commendable."
Mrs. Robson made no reply.
"I hope your husband has not suffered from the anxiety. Is he strong again?"
"I think he will be all right now if he takes care."
"Quite so, no more strains. But there, you look after him so well."