The clergyman looked so guilty as he said this that Conolly laughed outright at him. “You mean,” he said, “that Marian is _not_ quite alone. Well, very likely Douglas occupies himself a good deal with her. If so, there may be some busybody or another down there fool enough to tell her that people are talking about her. That would spoil her holiday; so it is lucky that you are going down. No one will take it upon themselves to speak to her when you are there; and if they say anything to you, you can let it in at one ear and out at the other.” “That is, of course, unless I should see her really acting indiscreetly.” “I had better tell you beforehand what you will see if you keep your eyes open. You will see very plainly that Douglas is in love with her. Also that she knows that he is in love with her. In fact, she told me so. And you will see she rather likes it. Every married woman requires a holiday from her husband occasionally, even when he suits her perfectly.” The Rev. George stared. “If I follow you aright—I am not sure that I do—you impute to Marian the sin of entertaining feelings which it is her duty to repress.” “I impute no sin to her. You might as well tell a beggar that he has no right to be hungry, as a woman that it is her duty to feel this and not to feel that.” “But Marian has been educated to feel only in accordance with her duty.” “So have you. How does it work? However,” continued Conolly, without waiting for an answer, “I dont deny that Marian shews the effects of her education. They are deplorably evident in all her conscientious actions.” “You surprise and distress me. This is the first intimation I have received of your having any cause to complain of Marian.”