"Oh, yes. Well, it might have been worse."
"I'm worried about her, Delia."
"Hum. I gathered from your letter that you were. Light gone out or something?"
The vicar nodded, his finger-tips pressed together.
"Yes, I suppose that is it—her light has gone out. Why, Delia? You know that I cannot provide myself as you can in a moment with biographical information to come to the aid of my psychology. What is wrong with her?"
"Wrong environment, intellectual idealist of limited capacity, not too much will-power, immense credulity and ridiculous desire to live up to other people's ideas of her, stuck in Marshington. Of course she was bound to find out some time."
"Find out what?"
"That this is the last place on earth for a woman whose mind runs upon other lines than the smooth road to matrimony, and whose personality isn't usually attractive. I'm glad she's come to her senses at last."
"She hasn't."
"She's not going to marry Mr. Robert Mason, is she?"