I stared, and flushed, and burst into tears. She also reddened, and produced a paper from her pocket.
“Is this yours?” she demanded. “He found it slipped into his breviary. It appears to me to bear only one construction.”
“And what is that, madam?” I asked coldly. My little outbreak had been mastered as soon as vented. My heart blazed with anger over this outrageous Cymon in a cassock.
“I put the question to you,” she said, her thin bosom heaving a little. “If it is as I suspect, I should blush to name it.”
“Blush rather for yourself,” I said, in the same chill tone, “to plant the slander in a young girl’s soul. I will be a Catholic no more.”
She rose, pale and agitated.
“Do you know what you say?” she breathed in fear. “You! self-dedicated to the cloister!”
“I renounce the pledge!” I cried, in a sudden burst of passion. “I will no longer believe what Father Pope believes, or confess again to him anything but lies, since those are what he likes to trade in.”
“Hush!” she said, aghast at my fury. Her hands trembled, fluttering the paper. “Hush! Be calm! You say things you cannot mean. God forgive you the threat of such apostasy!”
“And you,” I cried, still stormily, “such a witness against a poor child’s character.”