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And she had done even worse. By habituating Rowcliffe's senses to her way, she had produced in him, through sheer satisfaction, that sense of security which is the most dangerous sense of all. One week in June Rowcliffe went up to Garthdale two nights running. He had never done this before and he had had to lie badly about it both to himself and Mary.
She bit her lip. She knew that whatever she did she must not show temper. "Did Gwenda send for you?" Her voice was quiet. "She did not." He strode out of the house. After that he never told her when he was going up to Garthdale toward nightfall. He was sometimes driven to lie.
Her social value, obscured by the terrible two years in Garthdale, had come to her as a discovery and an acquisition. For all her complacency, she could not regard it as a secure thing. She was sensitive to every breath that threatened it; she was unable to forget that, if she was Steven Rowcliffe's wife, she was Alice Greatorex's sister. Even as Mary Cartaret she had been sensitive to Alice.
"Ye-hes. I think we shall do very comfortably here for the next seven years." He was thinking of old Hyslop. He had given him seven years. Mary inquired whether the doctor was in. Dr. Rowcliffe was in but he was engaged in the surgery. Mary thought she knew why Gwenda had come to-day. For the last two or three Wednesdays Rowcliffe had left Garthdale without calling at the Vicarage.
She filled the days between with reading and walking and parish work. There had been changes in Garthdale. Mr. Grierson had got married in one of his bursts of enthusiasm and had gone away. His place had been taken by Mr. Macey, the strenuous son of a Durlingham grocer. Mr. Macey had got into the Church by sheer strenuousness and had married, strenuously, a sharp and sallow wife.
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