“That,” said the vicar, “is part of one’s work, to consider low minds. Besides--my dear Oliver, I don’t want to be censorious--but why doesn’t Mrs. Le Moine live with her husband? And why isn’t Datcherd ever to be seen with his wife? And why are those two perpetually together?” Eddy grew hotter. His hand shook a little as he took out his pipe. “The Le Moines live apart because they prefer it. Why not? Datcherd, I presume, doesn’t go about with his wife because they are hopelessly unsuited to each other in every way, and bore each other horribly. I’ve seen Lady Dorothy Datcherd. The thought of her and Datcherd as companions is absurd. She disapproves of all he is and does. She’s a worldly, selfish woman. She goes her way and he his. Surely it’s best. As for Datcherd and Mrs. Le Moine--they _aren’t_ perpetually together. They come down here together because they’re both interested; but they’re in quite different sets, really. His friends are mostly social workers, and politicians, and writers of leading articles, and contributors to the quarterlies and the political press--what are called able men you know; his own family, of course, are all that sort. Her friends are artists and actors and musicians, and poets and novelists and journalists, and casual, irresponsible people who play round and have a good time and do clever work--I mean, her set and his haven’t very much to do with one another really.” Eddy spoke rather eagerly, as if he was anxious to impress this on the vicar and himself. The vicar heard him out patiently, then said, “I never said anything about sets. It’s him and her I’m talking about. You won’t deny they’re great friends. Well, no man and woman are ‘great friends’ in the eyes of poor people; they’re something quite different. And that’s not wholesome. It starts talk. And your being hand and glove with them does no good to your influence in the parish. For one thing, Datcherd’s known to be an atheist. These constant Sunday outings of yours--you’re always missing church, you see, and that’s a poor example. I’ve been spoken to about it more than once by the parents of your class-boys. They think it strange that you should be close friends with people like that.” Eddy started up. “People like that? People like Hugh Datcherd and Eileen Le Moine? Good heavens! I’m not fit to black their boots, and nor are the idiots who talk about them like that. Vulgar-mouthed lunatics!” This was unlike Eddy; he never called people vulgar, nor despised them; that was partly why he made a good church worker. The vicar looked at him over his pipe, a little irritated in his turn. He had not reckoned on the boy being so hot about these friends of his. “It’s a clear choice,” said the vicar, rather sharply. “Either you give up seeing so much of these people, and certainly give up bringing them into the parish; or--I’m very sorry, because I don’t want to lose you--you must give up St. Gregory’s.”