The mighty bulk of Mrs. Mulholland seemed to droop under the icy accents of the little Superior.
She gulped loudly two or three times, and then said very humbly, and with obvious effort, to Mrs. Tregaskis:
“Then I hope you’ll excuse me. I—I hope you’ll forgive me, Mrs. Tregaskis. I’m afraid my interference may have done more harm than good.”
“Say no more about it,” said Bertha bluntly. “I quite understand.”
She was astounded at the sudden change operated in the redoubtable Mrs. Mulholland, and when the old woman had gone heavily and dejectedly from the room she told Mère Pauline so frankly.
“Oui, oui,” said the imperturbable Superior dispassionately. “Elle a beaucoup de vertu, beaucoup d’humilité, la pauvre. One word is enough. She is very good, in spite of that tongue.”
“Now, is that the effect of her religion—the humility, I mean, not the tongue?”
“But yes, madame, naturally. What else should make her own herself in the wrong, like a child that is scolded? The Catholic religion teaches nothing if not the practice of humility in everyday life.”
“Upon my word,” cried Bertha, half-laughing, “if I thought it would have that effect upon Frances, she should do as she liked to-morrow.”
It was perhaps the strategical opening for which she had subconsciously been waiting in order to effect a graceful retreat from a position of resistance rapidly growing untenable.