Frances, her heart beating violently and a mist before her eyes, went and put her broom away in its accustomed corner.
She dawdled unconsciously, to delay the moment when she must return to the more remote community room belonging to the novitiate. Then the door of Mère Thérèse’s room opened, and Frances heard her say:
“Très bien, très bien. Cherchez-moi cette petite.”
“Elle est là, Mère Thérèse.”
Frances came forward quickly.
“You are needed in the parlour,” said her novice-mistress smiling. “Go with Sister Louise, my child.”
Frances turned, still blindly, to follow the old lay-sister.
“Your apron—your sleeves,” muttered Sister Louise in a scandalized whisper.
With fingers that shook, Frances took off the black apron and sleeves that protected her habit. She folded them and laid them in the accustomed pigeon-hole.
How slowly Sister Louise creaked downstairs! With what deliberation she turned, in the hall, to make mysterious signs that should not infringe the rule of silence, and should yet convey a communication.