“Instead of leaving me, you had better take me to Miss Bruce,” said Paul.
She shook her finger at him. “Do you think I’d play her such a trick as that?” She crossed the court, opened a door, and disappeared.
Paul turned impatiently to Mr. Smith. “There is something that Miss Bruce must know. Call her down immediately.”
Mr. Smith was silent. Then he said: “I might evade, but I prefer not to; the lady you speak of has asked our protection, and especially from you; she is soon to be taken into the Holy Church.”
“So you’re a priest, are you?” said Paul, in a fury.
“And that woman Wingate is your accomplice? Now I know where to have you!”
Mr. Smith did not quail, though Paul’s fist was close under his nose. “I am not a priest; Mrs. Wingate is an English lady of fortune, who devotes her life to charitable works. Miss Bruce came to us of her own accord, only three days ago. She was ill and unhappy. Now she is—tranquil.”
“Is she—is she alive?” said Paul, his voice suddenly beginning to tremble. It had come to him that Eve was dead.
“She is. I may as well tell you that she did not wish to be; but—but it has been represented to her that our lives are not our own, to cut short as we please; and so she has repented.”
“I don’t believe she has repented!” said Paul, with inconsequent anger. He hated the word, and the quiet little man.