“Don’t you want the lights, mother? It’s nearly dark, and I’ve brought you the second post.”
Ludovic turned on the light as he spoke, and gave a small packet of letters and newspapers into his mother’s hands, shaking his head reproachfully as he did so.
She looked up guiltily.
“There’s nothing much, darling—only a little magazine called Beads, and The Catholic Fireside and a—a few letters.”
Ludovic laughed gently.
“And how many of those are begging letters, dear?”
Lady Argent looked through the little heap, appearing rather distraught.
“This is a receipt,” she declared triumphantly, waving a sheet of cheap glazed notepaper closely covered with neat, angular writing.
“It’s a very long one,” said Ludovic suspiciously.
“Those poor French sisters at Coleham-on-Sea! The Superior has actually taken the trouble to write herself, and I only sent them the most dreadful old things: not clothes only, Francie, dear—though some of Ludovic’s old vests, not fit to give to the poor people here—but hair-brushes without any bristles—and even that seems a mockery, since their hair is all cut off when they take their first vows, I believe—so unwise not to wait till the final ones, I always think, though no doubt the Church has her reasons; and books with half the leaves torn out; and even a dreadful little half-empty pot of rouge, which my maid actually put in though she never told me till afterwards. No, Ludovic, you really shouldn’t laugh. I can’t think where such a thing came from, for I’ve certainly never used it in my life, and I can’t bear to think of the scandal it may have given those dear good Sisters of the Poor.”