“That’s what our lay-sisters here all call me, you know. The mother of the lady boarders. That’s what it means: the mother of the lady boarders.”
Bertha smiled.
“La mère des dames pensionnaires,” she repeated, less because she was impressed by the title than in order that her French pronunciation should make it evident how extremely unnecessary Mrs. Mulholland’s translation had been.
“That’s it, my dear—excuse me calling you so—that’s it. I see you understand French as well as I do myself. I always say that’s one of the advantages of living with a French community, as I do—one gets to know the language as though it was one’s own. Quite a French order, ours is, you know—founded by a Frenchwoman, Mam’selle Simone Vergy de Lange, in Paris. Ah, poor Paris! No convents there now, you know, Mrs. Tregaskis.”
“No, alas! Even when I was last there, about ten years ago, it——”
“Terribly sad, terribly sad,” interrupted Mrs. Mulholland; “but it’ll bring a judgment on the country. Mark my words, it’ll bring a judgment. All those flourishing Orders scattered and sent into exile—they can’t feel it anything but exile, you know—there they are, all over the place.”
Mrs. Tregaskis cleared her throat resolutely.
“A good many of them have found hospitality here in England,” she began firmly.
“Ah, yes, yes, yes. A blessing in disguise for this poor Protestant country—that’s what I always feel. Who knows what it may lead to? I dare say it’s largely for England’s sake that all this terrible persecution has been allowed, and then in return for the charity and hospitality they’ve received, these good monks and nuns will help to spread the Faith.”
“I’m not a Roman Catholic,” said Mrs. Tregaskis.