“I am going to see for myself.”
“Mam’selle will go to church?”
“Yes; that is, if you are sure it is a pilgrimage.”
“What else?” In her turn, Madame Gagnier pointed to the train whence a stream of humanity was pouring into the square courtyard of the Basilica.
“You are sure? I don’t want to break my neck for nothing, scrambling down your ancestral driveway.”
“Eh?”
For the thousandth time during the past nine days, Nancy felt an unreasoning rage against the deliberate monosyllable that checked her whimsical talk. In time, it becomes annoying to be obliged to explain all one’s figures of speech. Abruptly she pulled herself up and began again.
“Unless you are sure it is a pilgrimage, I do not wish to walk down the steep slope,” she amended.
“Yes. It is a pilgrimage from Lake Saint John. My son told me. It is the last pilgrimage of the year.”
Nancy clasped her hands in rapture.