Then she roused herself briskly and exclaimed:
“Here are the others at last! Well, Nina, what happened to you?”
The drive home passed almost in silence. Mrs. Severing was annoyed at having been delayed, and replied coldly to all Bertha’s cheery assurances of enjoyment that much was lacking to the more modern interpreters of music. Had not Bertie felt it so? Ah well, perhaps not!
Miss Blandflower, contrite and incoherent, was responsible for most of the conversation, such as it was.
That night Rosamund and Frances exchanged only a very few words. Rosamund indeed did not feel that words were needed to emphasize the unhappy certainty that was hers, and any discussion seemed to distress Frances, who said stammeringly and with tears in her eyes that nothing would be done for a long, long time, and even Father Anselm and Mère Pauline didn’t know yet.
“Have you thought of what Cousin Bertie will say?”
“No,” said Frances, the sudden whitening of her face belying the courage of her tone. “It’s no use thinking about that until the time comes.”
“And when will it come?” Rosamund asked wonderingly.
“I don’t know. I suppose Father Anselm will settle that. He is my director. Oh, Rosamund, it’s such a relief to know that one can’t do wrong as long as one is obedient. I just have to submit my own private judgment to what the Church teaches through her priests, and it’s such a comfort.”
Rosamund marvelled.