“Only a degree below the true Church, Madam. Her action is but anticipatory of a sweeping return of the entire Anglican Church to the true fold. And I learn further,” he went on, “that the Duchess will spend the winter in New York with her sister. Which means, of course, an unusually gay season here, does it not?”
The Beaubien quickly recovered from her astonishment. “Well, Monsignor,” she laughed, “for once you really are interesting. What else have you to divulge? That Mrs. Ames herself will be the next convert? Or perhaps J. Wilton?”
“No––at least, not yet. But one of your most intimate friends will become a communicant of Holy Saints next Sunday.”
“One of my most intimate friends!” The Beaubien set the spaniels down on the floor. “Now, my dear Monsignor, you are positively refreshing. Who is he?”
The man laughed softly. “Am I not right when I insist that you have wandered far, dear Madam? It is not ‘he,’ but ‘she,’ your dear friend, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles.”
The Beaubien’s mouth opened wide and she sat suddenly upright and gazed blankly at her raconteur. The man went on, apparently oblivious of the effect his information had produced. “Her beautiful ward, who is to make her bow to society this winter, is one of us by birth.”
“Then you have been at work on Mrs. Hawley-Crowles and her ward, have you?” said the Beaubien severely, and there was a threatening note in her voice.
“Why,” returned Monsignor easily, “the lady sent for me to express her desire to become affiliated with the Church. We do not seek her. And I have had no conversation with the girl, I assure you.”
The Beaubien reflected. Then: