Nina’s pause implied boundless devotion on the part of the quite nice woman.
“Is she a Sister?” asked Bertie, not unsuspiciously.
“Dear me, no, nothing of that sort. Just making the Retreat, like myself,” said Nina vaguely. “A Mrs. Mulholland—rather a talker, but quite to be depended on, I should think.”
“Well,” said Bertha doubtfully. “It would be very inconvenient to let Minnie go just now, and she’d hate it, poor thing. And I suppose the child is all right really—it’s only that one’s old-fashioned notions don’t like the idea of her being there under nobody’s charge but her own.”
“I’ll write to-night,” said Nina effusively, “and put her under Mrs. Mulholland’s charge. I quite meant to do it when I found myself obliged to rush away, but something prevented it at the last moment. Don’t dream of worrying for an instant, dearest.”
“I don’t worry, as you know. I’m a practical woman, Nina,” said Bertha bluntly. “Just write a line to this friend of yours, then, will you? and it can go to the post with the letters at once.”
Mrs. Severing had hardly contemplated so prompt an action, but she was relieved at shifting the onus of her responsibility so lightly, and sat down willingly enough to transfer it on to the substantial shoulders of Mrs. Mulholland.
Two days later she triumphantly confronted Mrs. Tregaskis with the reply.
“Why four pages?” curtly demanded Bertha, elevating her eyebrows.
“She gives me many little convent details which would hardly, of course, interest an outsider, but which mean something to me,” said Mrs. Severing, with the air of a lady-abbess.