Mrs. Mulholland fumbled for a moment in her enormous pocket and then drew forth a folded piece of paper.
“Now just let me pin that inside your waistbelt, and I shall be quite happy. I’ve just dotted down the intention—initials only, you know—but the Lord will understand. I should like you to have it on you, my dear, and you can burn it afterwards, you know.”
Frances submitted to Mrs. Mulholland’s rather heavy-handed manipulation of the old-fashioned ribbon-band round her waist.
“There now! God bless you, and pray for me; and one thing more, my dear: You can count on me to say a few words to your sister. Just a little word of sympathy, or explanation, to show her that we Catholics——”
There came a sudden sound of voices uplifted in unison from the chapel.
“Ave Maris Stella!” exclaimed Mrs. Mulholland, and made Frances precede her out of the narrow lobby.
Thereafter it seemed to Frances that she was conscious of nothing so much as of the activities of Mrs. Mulholland. It was Mrs. Mulholland who gave her, as it were, into the hands of Mère Thérèse, waiting at the entrance of the chapel, muttering hoarsely: “Here she is, ma Mère, here she is. Pray for me, dear.”
It was Mrs. Mulholland who squeezed hastily past her into the chapel and made vehement signals that she was to advance, and it was Mrs. Mulholland who, by some agency known only to herself, had caused her own large prie-dieu to be transferred from its customary corner in the back of the church to the best possible coign of vantage in a line with those of Lady Argent and Rosamund.
Even as the “Ave Maris Stella” pealed through the chapel, and she came slowly up the narrow aisle, it seemed to Frances that the husky, heartfelt tones of Mrs. Mulholland sounded above everybody else’s.
And it was undoubtedly Mrs. Mulholland who was whisking about the leaves of the little books on either side of her, and guiding her neighbours with an explanatory forefinger.