"My dear love, don't don't agitate yourself. This is her home, as you say, and is always open to her. But until she has learnt to be happy there, let her seek these new friends, whom she so infinitely prefers. Let her go to this nun."
Alex, at his words, felt a rush of longing for the tenderness, the grave understanding of Mother Gertrude, the atmosphere of the quiet convent parlour where she had never heard reproach or accusation.
"Oh, yes, let me go there," she sobbed childishly. "I'll try and be good there. I'll come back good, indeed I will."
Barbara's little, cool voice cut across her sobs:
"How can you go there? Will they let you stay? What will every one think?"
"So many girls take up slumming and good works now-a-days," said Lady Isabel wearily. "Every one knows she's been upset and unhappy for a long while. It may be the best plan. My poor darling, when you're tired of it, you can come back, and we'll try again."
There was no reproach at all in her voice now, only exhaustion, and a sort of relief at having reached a conclusion.
"You hear what your mother says. If her angelic love and patience do not touch you, Alex, you must indeed be heartless. Make your arrangements, and remember, my poor child, that as long as her arms remain open to you, I will receive you home again with love and patience and without one word of reproach."
He opened the door for Lady Isabel and followed slowly from the room, his iron-grey head shaking a little.
Alex flung herself down, and Barbara laid her hand half timidly on her sister's, in one of her rare caresses.