XXIV
“IPHIGENIA,” said Ludovic Argent in London that evening.
His mother looked distressed.
“My dearest boy, I do wish you wouldn’t call her that. It would make Rosamund more unhappy than she is already, if she heard you, and, besides, dear little Frances isn’t in the least like any heathen goddess of that sort. Not that I quite know what Iphigenia ever did, but I’m sure from your tone that it was something dreadful, and enough to expel her from any decent religious order.”
“She was only very young—and innocent—and sacrificed,” said Ludovic.
“Just as I say!” untruly remarked Lady Argent, in a tone of triumph. “Most unlike Frances, who is as happy as she can be, and made her sacrifice entirely of her own free will, as you perfectly well know. Unless, Ludovic, you want to make me think that you still believe in those shocking old myths of nuns being walled up alive and lured into convents because of their fortunes, which one knows perfectly well never happened at all, even in the Middle Ages, let alone nowadays with Government inspections and sanitary improvements and everything.”
“No, I don’t think they’re walling her up, mother,” Ludovic allowed, with the shadow of a smile crossing his habitually melancholy face. “But when you say she’s made her sacrifice of her own free will—well, she doesn’t yet know what it is that she’s giving up, does she?”
“Perhaps,” said Lady Argent with a sort of wistful decision that gave unwonted lucidity to her utterance, “perhaps she knows what she’s gaining, better than what she’s giving up, Ludovic.”
Ludovic found no reply.
Presently he asked: “Where is Miss Grantham?”