A desire to test the reality of the steadfast-seeming happiness that shone from the eyes of her ward made her say, rather curtly:
“I don’t know, dear. Why this necessity for correspondence?”
“I’d like to write to her, that’s all; but, of course, not if you don’t want me to,” said Frances placidly.
Bertha laughed, her good-humour suddenly restored.
“You can write if you want to, within reason. You are not generally a good correspondent, Frances.”
And Frances said calmly that no, she was afraid she wasn’t, except, perhaps, as regarded Rosamund.
Evidently the crisis was over, thought Bertha, not without relief. There might come a reaction later on, but with that she could trust herself to cope when at Porthlew.
They left the convent amid a crowd of auguries and farewells.
“Vous nous reviendrez, ma petite,” the Superior said as she embraced Frances, and her voice had all the authority of an assertion of fact.
“Oui ma Mère,” said Frances timidly. She was always shy of speaking French, especially in front of her guardian, who was apt to jeer good-humoredly at the schoolroom lingua-franca of her wards.