“What have you been doing?” she demanded plaintively of Frances on her return.
Frances’ colour was heightened and her eyes shining.
“Mère Pauline stayed with me in the parlour for quite a long time, and was so very kind and understanding—I’d never met anyone who understood things so well—and then she took me into the chapel. And then, just as I was coming up again, a sister told me that Father Anselm Windsor was here, and had asked to see me. You know I met him at the Twickenham Monastery when Lady Argent took me there, and he is instructing me.”
“So you had an extra catechism lesson!”
“It wasn’t exactly that,” said Frances simply. “He just talked to me very kindly, and explained a little about the Retreat, and I asked him if I couldn’t be received into the Church now. I think they will let me, at the end of the Retreat.”
Frances went to her own room that evening in a sort of dreamy happiness that was yet more poignant than any her short life had yet known. A sense of security, of having found some long-sought atmosphere of rest, pervaded her.
She was only roused from the lengthy and ardent thanksgiving which she was offering upon her knees when Mrs. Severing softly opened the door, retreating again as she perceived Frances’ attitude of devotion, but murmuring as she went:
“A most amusing thought has just struck me, Francie. These sweet nuns live so much out of the world, and are so much wrapped up in their prayers and things, that I dare say poor Mère Pauline doesn’t even know who I am.”
If Mrs. Severing, however, supposed that the revelation of her identity with the composer of the “Kismet” series would operate a startling change in Mère Pauline’s outlook, she was doomed to disappointment.
That imperturbable woman, when confronted next day with the casual announcement that Nina had composed “a certain amount of church music, as well as the more or less well-known songs, which had really made one’s name, of course,” merely replied with perfect placidity, and a smile that was rather encouraging than admiring: