“I do not hate you, little fool,” he said. “You beg the question. For what reason, Nicette? Are you afraid, or at a loss, to describe to me this vision?”
She seemed to check her weeping and to listen, though her bosom was still heavy with sobs.
“I am afraid,” she whispered.
“Of me? Nicette, shall I not finish the portrait?”
“No, no!”
“But you have seen the Mother, and know what she is like.”
“You would not believe.”
“At least put my credulity to the test.”
A long pause succeeded. The sobs died into silence. By-and-by the girl looked up—not at her inquisitor, but vaguely apart from him and away, as if her gaze were introspective. She clasped her hands together, holding them thus, in reverential attitude, against her throat.
“Nicette,” murmured Ned, “tell me—what is the Mother like?”