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Mrs Satterthwaite looked at nothing; then she nodded. 'Yes,' she said; 'I hadn't thought of it...But will he? He is a very sound fellow, isn't he?'

'What's to stop it?' the priest asked. 'What in the world but the grace of our blessed Lord, which he hasn't got and doesn't ask for? And then...He's a young man, full-blooded, and they won't be living...maritalement. Not if I know him. And then...Then she'll tear the house down. The world will echo with her wrongs.'

'Do you mean to say,' Mrs Satterthwaite said, 'that Sylvia would do anything vulgar?'

'Doesn't every woman who's had a man to torture for years when she loses him?' the priest asked. 'The more she's made an occupation of torturing him, the less right she thinks she has to lose him.'

Mrs Satterthwaite looked gloomily into the dusk.

'That poor devil...' she said. 'Will he get any peace anywhere?...What's the matter, Father?'

The Father said:

'I've just remembered she gave me tea and cream and I drank it. Now I can't take mass for Father Reinhardt. I'll have to go and knock up his curate, who lives away in the forest.'