It pained and astonished the vicar to learn that she was doing nothing of the sort. She was not even humble, as a woman in her degrading position should be. The relieving officer, who had made his long journey to Wolfpits for nothing, reported that she was not in need of relief, and for the most shameful of reasons. There was a lodger, a young man employed on the water-works and known to the police as a desperate character, who appeared to be filling the absent husband’s place. Malpas’s wife had not even made any decent attempt to conceal this state of affairs. She had confessed brazenly that she was living on this young man’s earnings. To help her in any way would merely be putting a premium on immorality. The vicar nodded his head gravely. Such cases were all too frequent in rural districts, and yet it was a relief to feel that his principles freed him from any further responsibility. He mentioned the matter with satisfaction to his wife at supper on Sunday. At this meal, his weekly labours being ended, he always felt that he could speak more lightly of parish matters. The vicar’s wife was shocked. ‘I always thought her such a superior young woman, dear. Do have some more beef!’ she said. The idea of the superior and desirable young woman, whom she remembered as the mother of those two sweet children, living in open sin, obsessed her. It was a terrible and fascinating picture, and since the usual supply of gossip failed at the next Lesswardine working party, she dilated, in hushed tones, on the latest enormity. ‘One feels a thing like that in one’s own parish,’ she said, speaking, as usual, as if she, and not the vicar, were the incumbent. ‘But I am afraid nothing can be done.’ Somebody made a suggestion. The sister of the vicar of Aston-by-Lesswardine, Mr Cyril Malpas—the name was a curious coincidence—was shortly to be married to a young engineer, and the vicar would consequently be in need of a housekeeper. What a providential escape it would be if this young woman could find a home in Mr Malpas’s vicarage! ‘If only Mr Malpas would overlook this terrible state of affairs and take her,’ they added. ‘The only difficulty that I see,’ said the vicar’s wife, ‘is that of the children.’ ‘But the matron at the workhouse is so motherly, and such a religious woman. Poor little things! It would be a blessing in disguise.’ Mr Malpas readily consented. His sister Celia, to tell the truth, had not been very successful as a housekeeper. Her individuality had been too marked—not to say aggressive—for that position, and a woman who had her reputation to regain would surely be anxious to please. The new arrangement was proposed to Mary. The vicar’s wife put the matter delicately, for she prided herself on her tact. More than ever she was impressed with the young woman’s superiority and the sweetness of the children. ‘Then I shall tell Mr Malpas that you will be glad to come, Mrs . . . er . . . Malpas?’