There is rather an awkward pause. Now that he is here, the question naturally presents itself—for what reason has he come? At length—-
"Will you not say you are glad to see me?" ventures Sir Mark, uneasily.
"I am neither glad nor sorry," is my unmoved return; "I have forgotten to be emotional. I believe my real feeling just now is indifference. Considering how unlooked-for is your presence here, it astonishes even myself that I can call up so little surprise. Curious, is it not? You look thin, I think, and older—not so well as when last we met."
He grows a shade paler.
"Do I?" Then, drawing a hard, quick breath—"And you, child, what have you been doing with yourself? Except for your eyes, it is hardly you I see. So white, so worn, so changed; this place is killing you."
"It is a very quiet place. It suits me better than any other could."
"I tell you it is killing you," he repeats, angrily. "Better to face and endure the world's talk at once, than linger here until body and soul part."
"I shall never face the world," return I, quietly. "Here is my convent; at least within its walls I find peace. I see no one, therefore hear no evil talk. I have no wish to be disturbed."
"So you think now; but as time goes on you must—you cannot fail to tire of it. Is it natural to one so young to lock herself voluntarily away from people of her own age? Why, how old are you, child?"
"Almost nineteen."