“I think you have made the only decision possible,” I said. “I know that it is a hard one, but believe me, it will be for the best in the end.”
I could see that he thought that that was the kind of thing easily said by someone who didn’t know what he was talking about.
“You’ll look after Anne? She needs a friend.”
“You can rest assured that I will do everything in my power.”
“Thank you, sir.” He wrung my hand. “You’re a good sort, padre. I shall see her to say goodbye this evening, and I shall probably pack up and go tomorrow. No good prolonging the agony. Thanks for letting me have the shed to paint in. I’m sorry not to have finished Mrs. Clement’s portrait.”
“Don’t worry about that, my dear boy. Goodbye, and God bless you.”
When he had gone I tried to settle down to my sermon, but with very poor success. I kept thinking of Lawrence and Anne Protheroe.
I had rather an unpalatable cup of tea, cold and black, and at half-past five the telephone rang. I was informed that Mr. Abbott of Lower Farm was dying and would I please come at once.
I rang up Old Hall immediately, for Lower Farm was nearly two miles away and I could not possibly get back by six-fifteen. I have never succeeded in learning to ride a bicycle.
I was told, however, that Colonel Protheroe had just started out in the car, so I departed, leaving word with Mary that I had been called away, but would try to be back by six-thirty or soon after.