Chapter II

As Mrs. Otway walked slowly on, she could not
help telling herself that dear old Miss Forsyth
had been more interfering and tiresome than she
usually was this morning.

She felt ruffled by the little talk they two had just
had -- so ruffled and upset that, instead of turning into
the gate of the house where she had been bound --
for she, too, had meant to pay a call in the Close on
her way to the cathedral -- she walked slowly on the
now deserted stretch of road running through and
under the avenue of elm trees which are so beautiful
and distinctive a feature of Witanbury Close.

Again a lump rose to her throat, and this time the
tears started into her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
In sheer astonishment at her own emotion, she stopped
short, and taking out her handkerchief dabbed her
eyes hurriedly. How strange that this interchange of
words with one whose peculiarities she had known,
and, yes, suffered under and smiled at for so many
years, should make her feel so -- so -- so upset!

Mrs. Otway was a typical Englishwoman of her age,
which was forty-three, and of her class, which was
that from which are drawn most of the women from
whom the clergy of the Established Church choose
their wives. There are thousands such, living in
serene girlhood, wifehood, or widowhood, to be found
in the villages and country towns of dear old England.
With but very few exceptions, they are kindly-natured,

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