“When are you going to tell them?” she asked later.
“Soon,” said Frances.
But that Frances’ courage had not yet proved equal to the avowal was made manifest some weeks later when Rosamund, unnoticed in the window, heard part of a conversation between Frederick Tregaskis and his wife.
“I shall want the trap in the morning, Frederick. I’ve got to drive Francie into Polwerrow.”
“Why?”
“Church, my dear man, church. It’s some holy Roman feast or other, and I promised the child she should get in to Mass if possible.”
“Very unreasonable,” growled Frederick.
“I knew you’d say so, dear,” patiently replied Bertha, who was apt to display tolerance of her ward’s inconvenient religion in proportion as her husband grumbled at it. “I should have thought Sundays quite enough, myself.”
“As to that,” replied the disconcerting Frederick, “she pays for her own cab on Sundays and doesn’t inconvenience anyone but herself. I’m not saying anything to her Sunday expeditions.”
“Well, well—it’s something to have peace. The child is perfectly happy, and has looked much better since she stopped fretting. Thank goodness, the religious crisis, since apparently she had to have one, is safely over and done with.”