As the door closed behind Rowcliffe, Mary appeared on the stairs.
"Gwenda," she said, "Ally wants you. She wants to know what he said."
"He said nothing."
"You look as if he'd said a great deal."
"He said nothing that she doesn't know."
"He told her there was nothing the matter with her except that she'd
been starving herself."
"He told me she'd been starved."
"I don't see the difference."
"Well," said Gwenda. "_He_ did."
* * * * *
That night the Vicar scowled over his supper. And before it was ended
he broke loose.
"Which of you two sent for Dr. Rowcliffe?"
"I did," said Gwenda.
Mary said nothing.
"And what--do you--mean by doing such a thing without consulting me?"
"I mean," said Gwenda quietly, "that he should see Alice."
"And _I_ meant--most particularly--that he shouldn't see her. If I'd
wanted him to see her I'd have gone for him myself."
"When it was a bit too late," said Gwenda.
His blue eyes dilated as he looked at her.
"Do you suppose I don't know what's the matter with her as well as he
does?"
As he spoke the stiff, straight moustache that guarded his mouth
lifted, showing the sensual redness and fulness of the lips.
And of this expression on her father's face Gwenda understood nothing,
divined nothing, knew nothing but that she loathed it.
"You may know what's the matter with her," she said, "but can you cure
it?"
"Can he?" said the Vicar.