Into this atmosphere of mental unrest Mère Pauline entered rapidly and noiselessly, as was her wont.
“Ah, madame!” she cried in tones of congratulation that verged upon the emotional, “quelle joie—what an answer to our poor prayers!”
Nina almost mechanically returned the pressure of Mère Pauline’s hand, and murmured in accents that confusion of mind rendered almost shamefaced:
“My son, Mère Pauline. Let me present him.”
“Ah!” said the nun gravely, and inclined her head in chastened recognition of the prodigal. “Votre maman a beaucoup souffert,” was the slightly unconventional greeting which she bestowed upon him.
Nina, avoiding glancing at her son, exclaimed with feverish presence of mind: “One cannot talk à trois very well, can one? My plans are rather altered by this sudden arrival—you must let me discuss them with you.”
“But certainly. Would Monsieur care to inspect the garden?”
“May I see to my car? She’s just outside,” said Morris, with the boyish smile that added an extraordinary charm to his good looks and direct blue gaze.
“Yes, by all means,” said Mère Pauline, an answering smile almost involuntarily modifying the compassionate severity of her expression.
Morris made his exit.