“Did Frances mind your going, mother?” inquired Morris an hour later, as he drove his mother rapidly away from the convent.
An almost imperceptible start from the slight veiled figure beside him confirmed his shrewd suspicion that his mother, thankfully hastening away from her cloistered solitude, had forgotten any formality of farewell.
But it was never Mrs. Severing’s way to place herself at a disadvantage in the eyes of others, and she replied with great presence of mind:
“I couldn’t make up my mind to disturb her, Morris. I know how one jarring note vibrates in that kind of atmosphere.” An expressive turn of Nina’s head left small room for doubt as to the striker of the jarring note in her own case, and Morris immediately fixed his eyes upon space.
“Look what you’re doing, darling—you’re not driving at all well,” said Nina suavely, as the little car swerved across the road.
But although victory might lie with Nina on this occasion, she remained a victim to some mental uneasiness.
Thankfully regaining the luxurious shelter of her own house, with blazing fires and carpeted spaces in consoling contrast to the scenes of her late experiment, Mrs. Severing yet lay back in her capacious armchair that evening, and murmured disconsolately:
“I suppose Bertie will understand that in all the circumstances I couldn’t very well stay on with Frances at the convent. Besides, she’s perfectly happy and absorbed in it all, and it’s ridiculous to suppose they can’t take care of her there. I spoke about her myself to Mère Pauline.”
“They’ll make a nun of her, I suppose,” remarked Morris.
“Well,” said Nina thoughtfully, “it’s a beautiful, sheltered, peaceful life—no trials, no temptations, no responsibilities. I’ve often wondered——” She broke off with a little sigh.