“Yes, to start with. Of course, you didn’t stop there.”
“But I did. Why not?”
“Miss Howard, you have neglected your opportunities. The regular tourist itinerary begins with the Basilica at ten, sneaks out and goes over to the English Cathedral at eleven and follows on the tail of the band when it escorts the soldiers home to the Citadel. Then it takes in the Ursuline Chapel at two, stops to drop a tear over Montcalm’s skull and then skurries off, on the chance of getting in an extra service before five-o’clock Benedictions at the Franciscan Convent.”
“The white chapel with the pale green pillars?”
“Yes, out on the Grand Allée.”
“I’ve been there,” she assented. “I love the place.”
“And then,” Brock continued inexorably; “if you make good time over your supper, you can just get back to the Basilica at seven.”
Nancy drew a long breath.
“But I don’t need to do all that,” she objected. “There are more Sundays coming.”
“That makes no difference. Every stranger is bound to gallop through his first Sunday in Quebec. It is one of the duties of the place. You think you won’t do it; but, at two o’clock, you’ll have an uneasy consciousness that those cloistered nuns over at the Ursuline may do something or other worth seeing. By quarter past two, you’ll be buried in a haze of mediævalism and incense.”