A naughty impulse seized upon the Lady.
“You were at Sainte Anne-de-Beaupré, you said? And could you get proper care in so small a place?”
Over the unconscious head of Mr. Cecil Barth, Nancy shook her fist at the Lady. Then she fled from the room; but not quickly enough to lose Barth’s answer,—
“Oh, so-so; nothing extra, but still quite tolerable. The doctor was clever; but the nurse, his daughter, was an American, a good-hearted sort of girl, but rather rude and untrained.”
All that Sunday afternoon, Nancy cherished her hopes of vengeance. Plan after plan suggested itself to her fertile brain, was weighed and found wanting. Planned hostility was totally inadequate; she would leave everything to chance. Nevertheless, Nancy tarried long at her mirror, that night; and she went down to supper with her head held high and a brilliant spot of color in either cheek. As she passed the parlor door, she saw Barth, book in hand, seated exactly where she had left him, and she suddenly realized that, rather than endure the short walk to his room, he had chosen to spend his afternoon in the dreary solitude of a public sitting-room. For an instant, her heart smote her, and her step lagged a little; then she remembered the guinea, and recalled Barth’s words, that noon, and her step quickened once more.
Brock followed her back to the parlor.
“Oh, let the Basilica go, to-night,” he urged.
“But you told me it was a part of my itinerary.”
“No matter. You haven’t kept up your round, to-day, anyway. Did you do the Ursulines, this afternoon?”
“No. I was all ready to go; but something happened that put me in an unchurchly frame of mind,” Nancy said vindictively.